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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8801-8.txt b/8801-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ca34dd5 --- /dev/null +++ b/8801-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2583 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Drum Taps, by Walt Whitman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Drum Taps + +Author: Walt Whitman + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8801] +This file was first posted on August 10, 2003 +Last updated: May 2, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUM TAPS *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreading + + + + + + + + +DRUM-TAPS + +By Walt Whitman + + + +CONTENTS + + + INTRODUCTION + + FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE + + EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE + + BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! + + FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD + + SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK + + RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS + + VIRGINIA--THE WEST + + CITY OF SHIPS + + THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY + + CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD + + BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE + + AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH + + BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME + + COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER + + VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT + + A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND THE ROAD UNKNOWN + + A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM + + AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS + + NOT THE PILOT + + YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME + + THE WOUND-DRESSER + + LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA + + GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN + + DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS + + OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE + + I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY + + THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION + + ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS + + NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME + + RACE OF VETERANS + + WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE + + O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY + + LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON + + RECONCILIATION + + HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE + + AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO + + DELICATE CLUSTER + + TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN + + LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS + + SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE + + ADIEU TO A SOLDIER + + TURN O LIBERTAD + + TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD + + + +NOTE + + +The Introduction is reprinted, by permission, from _The Times_ Literary +Supplement of April 1, 1915. + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +When the first days of August loured over the world, time seemed to +stand still. A universal astonishment and confusion fell, as upon a flock +of sheep perplexed by strange dogs. But now, though never before was a +St. Lucy's Day so black with "absence, darkness, death," Christmas is +gone. Spring comes swiftly, the almond trees flourish. Easter will soon +be here. Life breaks into beauty again and we realize that man may bring +hell itself into the world, but that Nature ever patiently waits to be +his natural paradise. Yet still a kind of instinctive blindness blots out +the prospect of the future. Until the long horror of the war is gone from +our minds, we shall be able to think of nothing that has not for its +background a chaotic darkness. Like every obsession, it gnaws at thought, +follows us into our dreams and returns with the morning. But there have +been other wars. And humanity, after learning as best it may their brutal +lesson, has survived them. Just as the young soldier leaves home behind +him and accepts hardship and danger as to the manner born, so, when he +returns again, life will resume its old quiet wont. Nature is not idle +even in the imagination. It is man's salvation to forget no less than it +is his salvation to remember. And it is wise even in the midst of the +conflict to look back on those that are past and to prepare for the +returning problems of the future. + +When Whitman wrote his "Democratic Vistas," the long embittered war +between the Northern and Southern States of America was a thing only of +yesterday. It is a headlong amorphous production--a tangled meadow of +"leaves of grass" in prose. But it is as cogent to-day as it was when it +was written: + + To the ostent of the senses and eyes [he writes], the influences + which stamp the world's history are wars, uprisings, or downfalls + of dynasties.... These, of course, play their part; yet, it may + be, a single new thought, imagination, abstract principle ... put + in shape by some great literatus, and projected among mankind, + may duly cause changes, growths, removals, greater than the + longest and bloodiest war, or the most stupendous merely + political, dynastic, or commercial overturn. + +The literatus who realized this had his own message in mind. And yet, +justly. For those who might point to the worldly prosperity and material +comforts of his country, and ask, Are not these better indeed than any +utterances even of greatest rhapsodic, artist, or literatus? he has his +irrefutable answer. He surveys the New York of 1870, "its façades of +marble and iron, of original grandeur and elegance of design," etc., in +his familiar catalogical jargon, and shutting his eyes to its glow and +grandeur, inquires in return, Are there indeed _men_ here worthy the +name? Are there perfect women? Is there a pervading atmosphere of +beautiful manners? Are there arts worthy freedom and a rich people? Is +there a great moral and religious civilization--the only justification of +a great material one? We ourselves in good time shall have to face and to +answer these questions. They search our keenest hopes of the peace that +is coming. And we may be fortified perhaps by the following queer proof +of history repeating itself: + + Never, in the Old World, was thoroughly upholster'd exterior + appearance and show, mental and other, built entirely on the idea + of caste, and on the sufficiency of mere outside + acquisition--never were glibness, verbal intellect, more the + test, the emulation--more loftily elevated as head and sample-- + than they are on the surface of our Republican States this day. + The writers of a time hint the mottoes of its gods. The word of + the modern, say these voices, is the word Culture. + +Whitman had no very tender regard for the Germany of his time. He fancied +that the Germans were like the Chinese, only less graceful and refined +and more brutish. But neither had he any particular affection for any +relic of Europe. "Never again will we trust the moral sense or abstract +friendliness of a single _Government_ of the Old World." He accepted +selections from its literature for the new American Adam. But even its +greatest poets were not America's, and though he might welcome even +Juvenal, it was for use and not for worship. We have to learn, he +insists, that the best culture will always be that of the manly and +courageous instincts and loving perceptions, and of self-respect. In our +children rests every hope and promise, and therefore in their mothers. +"Disengage yourselves from parties.... These savage and wolfish parties +alarm me.... Hold yourself judge and master over all of them." Only faith +can save us, the faith in ourselves and in our fellow-men which is of the +true faith in goodness and in God. The idea of the mass of men, so fresh +and free, so loving and so proud, filled this poet with a singular awe. +Passionately he pleads for the dignity of the common people. It is the +average man of a land that is important. To win the people back to a +proud belief and confidence in life, to rapture in this wonderful world, +to love and admiration--this was his burning desire. I demand races of +orbic bards, he rhapsodizes, sweet democratic despots, to dominate and +even destroy. The Future! Vistas! The throes of birth are upon us. +Allons, camarado! + +He could not despair. "Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of +the baffled?" he asks himself in "Drum-Taps." But wildest shuttlecock of +criticism though he is, he has never yet been charged with looking only +on the dark side of things. Once, he says, "Once, before the war (alas! I +dare not say how many times the mood has come!), I too, was fill'd with +doubt and gloom." His part in it soothed, mellowed, deepened his great +nature. He had himself witnessed such misery, cruelty, and abomination as +it is best just now, perhaps, not to read about. One fact alone is +enough; that over fifty thousand Federal soldiers perished of starvation +in Southern prisons. Malarial fever contracted in camps and hospitals had +wrecked his health. During 1862-65 he visited, he says, eighty to a +hundred thousand sick and wounded soldiers, comprehending all, slighting +none. Rebel or compatriot, it made no difference. "I loved the young +man," he cries again and again. Pity and fatherliness were in his face, +for his heart was full of them. Mr. Gosse has described "the old Gray" as +he saw him in 1884, in his bare, littered sun-drenched room in Camden, +shared by kitten and canary: + + He sat with a very curious pose of the head thrown backward, as + if resting it one vertebra lower down the spinal column than + other people do, and thus tilting his face a little upwards. With + his head so poised and the whole man fixed in contemplation of + the interlocutor he seemed to pass into a state of absolute + passivity ... the glassy eyes half closed, the large knotted + hands spread out before him. He resembled, in fact, nothing so + much as "a great old grey Angora Tom," alert in repose, serenely + blinking under his combed waves of hair, with eyes inscrutably + dreaming.... As I stood in dull, deserted Mickle Street once + more, my heart was full of affection for this beautiful old man + ... this old rhapsodist in his empty room, glorified by patience + and philosophy. + +Whitman was then sixty-five. In a portrait of thirty years before there +is just a wraith of that feline dream, perhaps, but it is a face of a +rare grace and beauty that looks out at us, of a profound kindness and +compassion. And, in the eyes, not so much penetration as visionary +absorption. Such was the man to whom nothing was unclean, nothing too +trivial (except "pale poetlings lisping cadenzas _piano_," who then +apparently thronged New York) to take to himself. Intensest, +indomitablest of individualists, he exulted in all that appertains to +that forked radish, Man. This contentious soul of mine, he exclaims +ecstatically; Viva: the attack! I have been born the same as the war was +born; I lull nobody, and you will never understand me: maybe I am +non-literary and un-decorous.... I have written impromptu, and shall let +it all go at that. Let me at least be human! Human, indeed, he was, a +tender, all-welcoming host of Everyman, of his idolized (if somewhat +overpowering) American democracy. Man in the street, in his swarms, poor +crazed faces in the State asylum, prisoners in Sing Sing, prostitute, +whose dead body reminded him not of a lost soul, but only of a sad, +forlorn, and empty house--it mattered not; he opened his heart to them, +one and all. "I see beyond each mark that wonder, a kindred soul. O the +bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend." + + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. + +"Yours for you," he exclaims, welding in a phrase his unparalleled +egotism, his beautiful charity, "yours for you, who ever you are, as mine +for me." It is the essence of philosophy and of religion, for all the +wonders of heaven and earth are significant "only because of the Me in +the centre." + +This was the secret of his tender, unassuming ministrations. He had none +of that shrinking timidity, that fear of intrusion, that uneasiness in +the presence of the tragic and the pitiful, which so often numb and +oppress those who would willingly give themselves and their best to the +needy and suffering, but whose intellect misgives them. He was that +formidable phenomenon, a dreamer of action. But he possessed a sovran +good sense. Food and rest and clean clothes were his scrupulous +preparation for his visits. He always assumed as cheerful an appearance +as possible. Armed with bright new five-cent and ten-cent bills (the +wounded, he found, were often "broke," and the sight of a little money +"helped their spirits"), with books and stationery and tobacco, for one a +twist of good strong green tea, for another a good home-made +rice-pudding, or a jar of sparkling but innocent blackberry and cherry +syrup, a small bottle of horse-radish pickle, or a large handsome apple, +he would "make friends." "What I have I also give you," he cried from the +bottom of his grieved, tempestuous heart. He would talk, or write +letters--passionate love-letters, too--or sit silent, in mute and tender +kindness. "Long, long, I gazed ... leaning my chin in my hands, passing +sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours, with you, dearest comrade--not a +tear, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son +and my soldier." And how many a mother must have blessed the stranger who +could bring such last news of a son as this: "And now like many other +noble and good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has +yielded up his young life at the very outset in her service. Such things +are gloomy--yet there is a text, 'God doeth all things well'--the meaning +of which, after due time, appears to the soul." It is only love that can +comfort the loving. + +He forced nothing on these friends of a day, so many of them near their +last farewell. A poor wasted young man asks him to read a chapter in the +New Testament, and Whitman chooses that which describes Christ's +Crucifixion. He "ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ +rose again. I read very slowly, for he was feeble. It pleased him very +much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion. +I said 'Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, yet maybe, it is the +same thing.'" This is only one of many such serene intimacies in +Whitman's experiences of the war. Through them we reach to an +understanding of a poet who chose not signal and beautiful episodes out +of the past, nor the rare moments of existence, for theme, but took all +life, within and around him in vast bustling America, for his poetic +province. Like a benign barbaric sun he surveys the world, ever at noon. +I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there, he cries in the "Song of Myself." +I do not despise you priests, all times, the world over.... He could not +despise anything, not even his fellow-poets, because he himself was +everything. His verse sometimes seems mere verbiage, but it is always a +higgledy-piggledy, Santa Claus bagful of _things_. And he could penetrate +to the essential reality. He tells in his "Drum-Taps" how one daybreak he +arose in camp, and saw three still forms stretched out in the eastern +radiance, how with light fingers he just lifted the blanket from each +cold face in turn: the first elderly, gaunt, and grim--Who are you, my +dear comrade? The next with cheeks yet blooming--Who are you, sweet boy? +The third--Young man, I think I know you. I think this face is the face +of the Christ Himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again +he lies. + +True poetry focuses experience, not merely transmits it. It must redeem +it for ever from transitoriness and evanescence. Whitman incontinently +pours experience out in a Niagara-like cataract. But in spite of his +habitual publicity he was at heart of a "shy, brooding, impassioned +devotional type"; in spite of his self-conscious, arrogant virility, he +was to the end of his life an entranced child. He came into the world, +saw and babbled. His deliberate method of writing could have had no other +issue. A subject would occur to him, a kind of tag. He would scribble it +down on a scrap of paper and drop it into a drawer. Day by day this first +impulse would evoke fresh "poemets," until at length the accumulation was +exhaustive. Then he merely gutted his treasury and the ode was complete. +It was only when sense and feeling attained a sort of ecstasy that he +succeeded in distilling the true essence that is poetry and in enstopping +it in a crystal phial of form. + +The prose of his "Specimen Days," indeed, is often nearer to poetry than +his verse: + + Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.... I often come and + sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as + softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so + handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time + as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without + the least start awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady + look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier--one long, + clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd back and went into + his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the + heart of the stranger that hover'd near. + + The western star, Venus, in the earlier hours of evening has + never been so large, so clear; it seems as if it told something, + as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity, with us Americans. + The sky dark blue, the transparent night, the planets, the + moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of that + great star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west, + suffused the soul. Then I heard slow and clear the deliberate + notes of a bugle come up out of the silence ... firm and + faithful, floating along, rising, falling leisurely, with here + and there a long-drawn note.... sounding tattoo. + +"A steady rain, dark and thick and warm," he writes again, two days after +Gettysburg. "The cavalry camp is a ceaseless field of observation to me. +This forenoon there stood the horses, tether'd together, dripping, +steaming, chewing their hay. The men emerge from their tents, dripping +also. The fires are half-quench'd." There is a poetic poise in this +brief, vivid statement, apart from its bare economy of means. It is the +lump awaiting the leaven no less than is "Cavalry Crossing a Ford." To +this supreme spectator an apple orchard in May, even the White House in +moonlight, no more and no less than these battle-scenes, rendered up +their dignity, life, and beauty, their true human significance. But in +"Drum-Taps" the witness is not always so satisfactory. The secret has +evaporated in the effort to _make_ poetry, or half-consciously to inject +a moral, to play the Universal Bard. There creeps into the words a tinge +of the raw and the grotesque. The poet has the look of a cowboy off the +stage, tanned with grease-paint. But again and again the secret creeps +back and some lovely emanation of poetry is added to it: + + Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, + Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, + purple, + On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide, + Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. + +Or this, called "Reconciliation": + + Word over all, beautiful as the sky, + Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be + utterly lost, + That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash + again, and ever again, this soil'd world; + For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, + I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--I draw + near, + Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the + coffin. + +The bonds of rhyme shackled him, deprived him of more than freedom. He is +like a wild bird that suddenly perceives the bars of its small cage +across the blue of the sky. And yet the finer his poems are, the nearer +they approach to definite rhythmical design. One has only to compare "O +Captain! my Captain!" with "Hushed be the Camps To-day" to perceive this +curious paradox. They are both of them memories of his beloved Lincoln, +whom he had many times seen, with that peculiarly close and transatlantic +curiosity of his, riding at a jog-trot, on a good-sized, easy-going grey +horse, with his escort of yellow-striped cavalry behind him, through the +streets of Washington--dressed in black, somewhat rusty and dusty, with a +black, stiff hat, almost as ordinary in attire as the commonest man. That +heroic face, too, he had pierced; and caught from it the deep, subtle, +indirect expression, that only the long-gone master-painters of the Old +World could have seized and immortalized. And in yet another memory of +this great American Whitman attains to his best and highest, "When Lilacs +Last in the Doorway Bloom'd." It is one of the most beautiful of poems, +of the purest intuition, of a consummate, if unconscious, artistry. Whose +voice is it that rings and echoes, now low and tender, now solemn and +desolate, now clear, full, victorious, out of its cloistral +solitude--that of the mourner himself, of all-heedfull, heedless Nature, +of the immortal soul of man, or just a bird, the shy and hidden, sweet, +small hermit thrush? The last division of his life's work--his fond Epic, +his cosmic "inventory"--as Whitman planned it, was to be devoted to the +chaunting of songs of death and immortality. The soldier to whom he read +of Christ's Resurrection talked of death to him, and said he did not fear +it. He talked to a man who did not enjoy religion in the way a Christian +means, to whom the mystery of Easter is an all-sufficing "reliance." But +Whitman not only did not fear death. The thought of it was to him the +strangest of raptures, the reverie of a child dreaming of a distant +mother, soon to come again. Death and immortality were but two aspects of +the same blessed hope to this man, who poured out his life in a turgid +fount of ecstatic joy in living: + + ... And I saw askant the armies, + I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, + Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I + saw them, + And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, + And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence), + And the staffs all splintered and broken. + + I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, + And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, + I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, + But I saw they were not as was thought, + They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, + The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, + And the wives and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd, + And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.... + + _Come lovely and soothing death, + Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, + In the night, in the day, to all, to each, + Sooner or later delicate death._ + + _Prais'd be the fathomless universe, + For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, + And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! + For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death._ + + _Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet + Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? + Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, + I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come + unfalteringly._ + + + + + +DRUM-TAPS + + + + +FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE. + + + First O songs for a prelude, + Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city, + How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue, + How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang, + (O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! + O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than + steel!) + How you sprang--how you threw off the costumes of peace with + indifferent hand, + How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard + in their stead, + How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of + soldiers,) + How Manhattan drum-taps led. + + Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading, + Forty years as a pageant, still unawares the lady of this teeming and + turbulent city, + Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, + With her million children around her, suddenly, + At dead of night, at news from the south, + Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement. + + A shock electric, the night sustain'd it, + Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads. + From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the doorways, + Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming. + + To the drum-taps prompt, + The young men falling in and arming, + The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's + hammer, tost aside with precipitation,) + The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the + court, + The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing + the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, + The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all + leaving; + Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm, + The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their + accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully, + Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musketbarrels, + The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the + sunrise cannon and again at sunset, + Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark + from the wharves, + (How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with + their guns on their shoulders! + How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces and + their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!) + The blood of the city up--arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere, + The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the + public buildings and stores, + The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his + mother, + (Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain + him,) + The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the + way, + The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their + favorites, + The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along, rumble + lightly over the stones, + (Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence, + Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business;) + All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming, + The hospital service, the lint, bandages and medicines, + The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest, no + mere parade now; + War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no turning + away; + War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing to + welcome it. + + Mannahatta a-march--and it's O to sing it well! + It's O for a manly life in the camp. + + And the sturdy artillery, + The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns, + Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for + courtesies merely, + Put in something now besides powder and wadding.) + + And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta, + Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city, + Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown'd amid + all your children, + But now you smile with joy exulting old Mannahatta. + + + + +EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE. + + + Arm'd year--year of the struggle, + No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you terrible year, + Not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenzas + piano, + But as a strong man erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing, + carrying a rifle on your shoulder, + With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands, with a knife in + the belt at your side, + As I heard you shouting loud, your sonorous voice ringing across the + continent, + Your masculine voice O year, as rising amid the great cities, + Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you as one of the workmen, the + dwellers in Manhattan, + Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and + Indiana, + Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait and descending the + Alleghanies, + Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along the + Ohio river, + Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at + Chattanooga on the mountain top, + Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs clothed in blue, bearing + weapons, robust year, + Heard your determin'd voice launch'd forth again and again, + Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp'd cannon, + I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year. + + + + +BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! + + + Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! + Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force, + Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, + Into the school where the scholar is studying; + Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with + his bride, + Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering + his grain, + So fierce you whirr and pound you drums--so shrill you bugles blow. + + Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! + Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets; + Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers + must sleep in those beds, + No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--would they + continue? + Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? + Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the + judge? + Then rattle quicker, heavier drums--you bugles wilder blow. + + Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! + Make no parley--stop for no expostulation, + Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer, + Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, + Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, + Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the + hearses, + So strong you thump O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow. + + + + +FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD + + + From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird, + Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all, + To the north betaking myself to sing there arctic songs, + To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself, to Michigan then, + To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are + inimitable;) + Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs, to Missouri and Kansas and + Arkansas to sing theirs, + To Tennessee and Kentucky, to the Carolinas and Georgia to sing + theirs, + To Texas and so along up toward California, to roam accepted + everywhere; + To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum if need be,) + The idea of all, of the Western world one and inseparable, + And then the song of each member of these States. + + + + +SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK. + + + _Poet._ + O a new song, a free song, + Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer, + By the wind's voice and that of the drum, + By the banner's voice and child's voice and sea's voice and father's + voice, + Low on the ground and high in the air, + On the ground where father and child stand, + In the upward air where their eyes turn, + Where the banner at daybreak is flapping. + + Words! bookwords! what are you? + Words no more, for hearken and see, + My song is there in the open air, and I must sing, + With the banner and pennant a-flapping. + + I'll weave the chord and twine in, + Man's desire and babe's desire, I'll twine them in, I'll put in life, + I'll put the bayonet's flashing point, I'll let bullets and slugs + whizz, + (As one carrying a symbol and menace far into the future, + Crying with trumpet voice, _Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!_) + I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of + joy. + Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete, + With the banner and pennant a-flapping. + + _Pennant._ + Come up here, bard, bard, + Come up here, soul, soul, + Come up here, dear little child, + To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless + light. + + _Child._ + Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger? + And what does it say to me all the while? + + _Father._ + Nothing my babe you see in the sky, + And nothing at all to you it says--but look you my babe, + Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the + money-shops opening, + And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with + goods; + These, ah these, how valued and toil'd for these! + How envied by all the earth. + + _Poet._ + Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high, + On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels, + On floats the wind over the breast of the sea setting in toward land, + The great steady wind from west or west-by-south, + Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters. + + But I am not the sea nor the red sun, + I am not the wind with girlish laughter, + Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which lashes, + Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death, + But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings, + Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land, + Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings, + And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner and + pennant, + Aloft there flapping and flapping. + + _Child._ + O father it is alive--it is full of people--it has children, + O now it seems to me it is talking to its children, + I hear it--it talks to me--O it is wonderful! + O it stretches--it spreads and runs so fast--O my father, + It is so broad it covers the whole sky. + + _Father._ + Cease, cease, my foolish babe, + What you are saying is sorrowful to me, much it displeases me; + Behold with the rest again I say, behold not banners and pennants + aloft, + But the well-prepared pavements behold, and mark the solid-wall'd + houses. + + _Banner and Pennant._ + Speak to the child O bard out of Manhattan, + To our children all, or north or south of Manhattan, + Point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all--and yet we know + not why, + For what are we, mere strips of cloth profiting nothing, + Only flapping in the wind? + + _Poet._ + I hear and see not strips of cloth alone, + I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry, + I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men, I hear Liberty! + I hear the drums beat and the trumpets blowing, + I myself move abroad swift-rising flying then, + I use the wings of the land-bird and use the wings of the sea-bird, + and look down as from a height, + I do not deny the precious results of peace, I see populous cities + with wealth incalculable, + I see numberless farms, I see the farmers working in their fields or + barns, + I see mechanics working, I see buildings everywhere founded, going + up, or finished, + I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn by + the locomotives, + I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New + Orleans, + I see far in the West the immense area of grain, I dwell awhile + hovering, + I pass to the lumber forests of the North, and again to the Southern + plantation, and again to California; + Sweeping the whole I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, + earn'd wages, + See the Identity formed out of thirty-eight spacious and haughty + States, (and many more to come,) + See forts on the shores of harbors, see ships sailing in and out; + Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen'd pennant shaped + like a sword, + Runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance--and now the halyards + have rais'd it, + Side of my banner broad and blue, side of my starry banner, + Discarding peace over all the sea and land. + + _Banner and Pennant._ + Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave! + No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone, + We may be terror and carnage, and are so now, + Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any + five, nor ten,) + Nor market nor depot we, nor money-bank in the city, + But these and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines + below, are ours, + And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small, + And the fields they moisten, and the crops and the fruits are ours, + Bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours--while we + over all, + Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square + miles, the capitals, + The forty millions of people,--O bard! in life and death supreme, + We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above, + Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you, + This song to the soul of one poor little child. + + _Child._ + O my father I like not the houses, + They will never to me be any thing, nor do I like money, + But to mount up there I would like, O father dear, that banner I + like, + That pennant I would be and must be. + + _Father._ + Child of mine you fill me with anguish, + To be that pennant would be too fearful, + Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever, + It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy every thing, + Forward to stand in front of wars--and O, such wars!--what have you + to do with them? + With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death? + + _Banner._ + Demons and death then I sing, + Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war, + And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of + children, + Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the + sea, + And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke, + And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and + pines, + And the whirr of drums and the sound of soldiers marching, and the + hot sun shining south, + And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my Eastern shore, and + my Western shore the same, + And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi with + bends and chutes, + And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of + Missouri, + The Continent, devoting the whole identity without reserving an atom, + Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all and the yield + of all, + Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole, + No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound, + But out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more, + Croaking like crows here in the wind. + + _Poet_. + My limbs, my veins dilate, my theme is clear at last, + Banner so broad advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and + resolute, + I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd and blinded, + My hearing and tongue are come to me, (a little child taught me,) + I hear from above O pennant of war your ironical call and demand, + Insensate! insensate! (yet I at any rate chant you,) O banner! + Not houses of peace indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity, + (if need be, you shall again have every one of those houses + to destroy them, + You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full + of comfort, built with money, + May they stand fast, then? not an hour except you above them and all + stand fast;) + O banner, not money so precious are you, not farm produce you, nor + the material good nutriment, + Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships, + Not the superb ships with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and + carrying cargoes, + Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues--but you as henceforth I + see you, + Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, + (ever-enlarging stars,) + Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touch'd by the sun, + measuring the sky, + (Passionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little child, + While others remain busy or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, + thrift;) + O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake hissing so + curious, + Out of reach, an idea only, yet furiously fought for, risking bloody + death, loved by me, + So loved--O you banner leading the day with stars brought from the + night! + Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all--(absolute + owner of all)--O banner and pennant! + I too leave the rest--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, machines + are nothing--I see them not, + I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I + sing you only, + Flapping up there in the wind. + + + + +RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS. + + +1 + + Rise O days from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer + sweep, + Long for my soul hungering gymnastic I devour'd what the earth gave + me, + Long I roam'd the woods of the north, long I watch'd Niagara pouring, + I travel'd the prairies over and slept on their breast, I cross'd the + Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus, + I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd out to sea, + I sail'd through the storm, I was refresh'd by the storm, + I watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves, + I mark'd the white combs where they career'd so high, curling over, + I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds, + Saw from below what arose and mounted (O superb! O wild as my heart, + and powerful!) + Heard the continuous thunder as it bellow'd after the lightning, + Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning as sudden and fast + amid the din they chased each other across the sky; + These, and such as these, I, elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet pensive + and masterful, + All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me, + Yet there with my soul I fed, I fed content, supercilious. + +2 + + 'Twas well, O soul--'twas a good preparation you gave me, + Now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill, + Now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea never gave us, + Not through the mighty woods we go, but through the mightier cities, + Something for us is pouring now more than Niagara pouring, + Torrents of men, (sources and rills of the Northwest are you indeed + inexhaustible?) + What, to pavements and homesteads here, what were those storms of the + mountains and sea? + What, to passions I witness around me to-day? was the sea risen? + Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds? + Lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more deadly and savage, + Manhattan rising, advancing with menacing front--Cincinnati, Chicago, + unchain'd; + What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold what comes here, + How it climbs with daring feet and hands--how it dashes! + How the true thunder bellows after the lightning--how bright the + flashes of lightning! + How Democracy with desperate vengeful port strides on, shown through + the dark by those flashes of lightning! + (Yet a mournful wail and low sob I fancied I heard through the dark, + In a lull of the deafening confusion.) + +3 + + Thunder on! stride on, Democracy! strike with vengeful stroke! + And do you rise higher than ever yet O days, O cities! + Crash heavier, heavier yet O storms! you have done me good, + My soul prepared in the mountains absorbs your immortal strong + nutriment, + Long had I walk'd my cities, my country roads through farms, only + half satisfied, + One doubt nauseous undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground + before me, + Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically + hissing low; + The cities I loved so well I abandon'd and left, I sped to the + certainties suitable to me, + Hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies and Nature's + dauntlessness, + I refresh'd myself with it only, I could relish it only, + I waited the bursting forth of the pent fire--on the water and air I + waited long; + But now I no longer wait, I am fully satisfied, I am glutted, + I have witness'd the true lightning, I have witness'd my cities + electric, + I have lived to behold man burst forth and warlike America rise, + Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds, + No more the mountains roam or sail the stormy sea. + + + + +VIRGINIA--THE WEST. + + + The noble sire fallen on evil days, + I saw with hand uplifted, menacing, brandishing, + (Memories of old in abeyance, love and faith in abeyance,) + The insane knife toward the Mother of All. + + The noble son on sinewy feet advancing, + I saw, out of the land of prairies, land of Ohio's waters and of + Indiana, + To the rescue the stalwart giant hurry his plenteous offspring, + Drest in blue, bearing their trusty rifles on their shoulders. + + Then the Mother of All with calm voice speaking, + As to you Rebellious, (I seemed to hear her say,) why strive against + me, and why seek my life? + When you yourself forever provide to defend me? + For you provided me Washington--and now these also. + + + + +CITY OF SHIPS. + + + City of ships! + (O the black ships! O the fierce ships! + O the beautiful sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!) + City of the world! (for all races are here, + All the lands of the earth make contributions here;) + City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides! + City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and + out with eddies and foam! + City of wharves and stores--city of tall façades of marble and iron! + Proud and passionate city--mettlesome, mad, extravagant city! + Spring up, O city--not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, + warlike! + Fear not--submit to no models but your own O city! + Behold me--incarnate me as I have incarnated you! + I have rejected nothing you offer'd me--whom you adopted I have + adopted, + Good or bad I never question you--I love all--I do not condemn any + thing, + I chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more, + In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine, + War, red war is my song through your streets, O city! + + + + +THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY. + + + _Volunteer of 1861-2, (at Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the + Centenarian.)_ + + Give me your hand old Revolutionary, + The hill-top is nigh, but a few steps, (make room gentlemen,) + Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite of your hundred and + extra years, + You can walk old man, though your eyes are almost done, + Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me. + Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means, + On the plain below recruits are drilling and exercising, + There is the camp, one regiment departs to-morrow, + Do you hear the officers giving their orders? + Do you hear the clank of the muskets? + + Why what comes over you now old man? + Why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively? + The troops are but drilling, they are yet surrounded with smiles. + Around them at hand the well-drest friends and the women, + While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down, + Green the midsummer verdure and fresh blows the dallying breeze, + O'er proud and peaceful cities and arm of the sea between. + But drill and parade are over, they march back to quarters, + Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! + + As wending the crowds now part and disperse--but we old man, + Not for nothing have I brought you hither--we must remain, + You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. + + _The Centenarian._ + + When I clutch'd your hand it was not with terror, + But suddenly pouring about me here on every side, + And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they + ran, + And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see south and + south-east and south-west, + Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, + And along the shores, in mire (now fill'd over) came again and + suddenly raged, + As eighty-five years a-gone no mere parade receiv'd with applause of + friends, + But a battle which I took part in myself--aye, long ago as it is I + took part in it, + Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. + + Aye, this is the ground, + My blind eyes even as I speak behold it re-peopled from graves, + The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear, + Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are mounted, + I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to bay, + I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes; + Here we lay encamp'd, it was this time in summer also. + + As I talk I remember all, I remember the Declaration, + It was read here, the whole army paraded, it was read to us here, + By his staff surrounded the General stood in the middle, he held up + his unsheath'd sword, + It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army. + + 'Twas a bold act then--the English war-ships had just arrived, + We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, + And the transports swarming with soldiers. + + A few days more and they landed, and then the battle. + + Twenty thousand were brought against us, + A veteran force furnish'd with good artillery. + I tell not now the whole of the battle, + But one brigade early in the forenoon order'd forward to engage the + red-coats, + Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd, + And how long and well it stood confronting death. + + Who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting + death? + It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, + Raised in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known personally to + the General. + + Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus' waters, + Till of a sudden unlook'd for by defiles through the woods, gain'd at + night, + The British advancing, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing + their guns, + That brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy's mercy. + + The General watch'd them from this hill, + They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment, + They drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the + middle, + But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! + + It sickens me yet, that slaughter! + I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General. + I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. + + Meanwhile the British manoeuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle, + But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle. + + We fought the fight in detachments. + Sallying forth we fought at several points, but in each the luck was + against us, + Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back to + the works on this hill, + Till we turn'd menacing here, and then he left us. + + That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two + thousand strong, + Few return'd, nearly all remain in Brooklyn. + That and here my General's first battle, + No women looking on nor sunshine to bask in, it did not conclude with + applause, + Nobody clapp'd hands here then. + + But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain, + Wearied that night we lay foil'd and sullen, + While scornfully laugh'd many an arrogant lord oft' against us + encamp'd, + Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over + their victory. + + So dull and damp and another day, + But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, + Silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him, my + General retreated. + + I saw him at the river-side, + Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; + My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass'd over, + And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the + last time. + + Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom, + Many no doubt thought of capitulation. + + But when my General pass'd me, + As he stood in his boat and look'd toward the coming sun, + I saw something different from capitulation. + + _Terminus._ + + Enough, the Centenarian's story ends, + The two, the past and present, have interchanged, + I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now + speaking. + + And is this the ground Washington trod? + And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he + cross'd, + As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs? + + I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward, + I must preserve that look as it beam'd on you rivers of Brooklyn. + + See--as the annual round returns the phantoms return, + It is the 27th of August and the British have landed, + The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke + Washington's face, + The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to intercept + the enemy, + They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them, + Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, + Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds, + In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears. + + Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable + than your owners supposed; + In the midst of you stands an encampment very old, + Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade. + + + + +CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD. + + + A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, + They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun--hark to + the musical clank, + Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop + to drink, + Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the + negligent rest on the saddles, + Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the + ford--while + Scarlet and blue and snowy white, + The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. + + + + +BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE. + + + I see before me now a traveling army halting, + Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer, + Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising + high, + Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily + seen, + The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the + mountain, + The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, + flickering, + And over all the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, + breaking out, the eternal stars. + + + + +AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH. + + + With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, + With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an + irregular volley, + The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, + Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun--the dust-cover'd men, + In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, + With artillery interspers'd--the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, + As the army corps advances. + + + + +BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME. + + + By the bivouac's fitful flame, + A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow--but first + I note, + The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim out-line, + The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence, + Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving, + The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily + watching me,) + While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts, + Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that + are far away; + A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground, + By the bivouac's fitful flame. + + + + +COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER. + + + Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, + And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son. + + Lo, 'tis autumn, + Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, + Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the + moderate wind, + Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd + vines, + (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? + Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) + Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and + with wondrous clouds, + Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers + well. + + Down in the fields all prospers well, + But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's call, + And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. + + Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, + She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap. + + Open the envelope quickly, + O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, + O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul! + All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main + words only, + Sentences broken, _gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, + taken to hospital, + At present low, but will soon be better._ + + Ah now the single figure to me, + Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, + Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, + By the jamb of a door leans. + + _Grieve not so, dear mother_, (the just-grown daughter speaks through + her sobs, + The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd,) + _See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better._ + + Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be + better, that brave and simple soul,) + While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, + The only son is dead. + + But the mother needs to be better, + She with thin form presently drest in black, + By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often + waking, + In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, + O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and + withdraw, + To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. + + + + +VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT. + + + Vigil strange I kept on the field one night; + When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day, + One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall + never forget, + One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the + ground, + Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle, + Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my + way, + Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of + responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,) + Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the + moderate night-wind, + Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the + battle-field spreading, + Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night, + But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, + Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my + chin in my hands, + Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest + comrade--not a tear, not a word, + Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my + soldier, + As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole, + Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your + death, + I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall + surely meet again,) + Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn + appear'd, + My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form, + Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully + under feet, + And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, + in his rude-dug grave I deposited, + Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field + dim, + Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth + responding,) + Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day + brighten'd, + I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his + blanket, + And buried him where he fell. + + + + +A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND THE ROAD UNKNOWN. + + + A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown, + A route through a heavy wood with muffled steps in the darkness, + Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating, + Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted + building, + We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted + building, + 'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads, now an impromptu + hospital, + Entering but for a minute I see a sight beyond all the pictures and + poems ever made, + Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and + lamps, + And by one great pitchy torch stationary with wild red flame and + clouds of smoke, + By these, crowds, groups of forms vaguely I see on the floor, some in + the pews laid down, + At my feet more distinctly a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of + bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen,) + I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a + lily,) + Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene fain to absorb it + all, + Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, + some of them dead, + Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, + the odor of blood, + The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside also + fill'd, + Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the + death-spasm sweating, + An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls, + The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the + torches, + These I resume as I chant, I see again the forms, I smell the odor, + Then hear outside the orders given, _Fall in, my men, fall in_; + But first I bend to the dying lad, his eyes open, a half-smile gives + he me, + Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness, + Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks, + The unknown road still marching. + + + + +A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM. + + + A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, + As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless, + As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital + tent, + Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended + lying, + Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket, + Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. + + Curious I halt and silent stand, + Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just + lift the blanket; + Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and + flesh all sunken about the eyes? + Who are you my dear comrade? + + Then to the second I step-and who are you my child and darling? + Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? + + Then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of + beautiful yellow-white ivory; + Young man I think I know you--I think this face is the face of the + Christ himself, + Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies. + + + + +AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS. + + + As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, + To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas autumn,) + I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; + Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all could I + understand,) + The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to lose-yet this sign + left, + On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, + _Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade._ + + Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, + Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life, + Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in + the crowded street, + Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the inscription + rude in Virginia's woods, + _Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade._ + + + + +NOT THE PILOT. + + + Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, + though beaten back and many times baffled; + Not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long, + By deserts parch'd, snows chill'd, rivers wet, perseveres till he + reaches his destination, + More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a + march for these States, + For a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries + hence. + + + + +YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME. + + + Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me! + Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me, + A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me, + Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself, + Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled? + And sullen hymns of defeat? + + + + +THE WOUND-DRESSER. + + +1 + + An old man bending I come among new faces, + Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, + Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, + (Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge + relentless war, + But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself, + To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;) + Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these + chances, + Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally + brave;) + Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, + Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us? + What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, + Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains? + +2 + + O maidens and young men I love and that love me, + What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking + recalls, + Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and + dust, + In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the + rush of successful charge, + Enter the captur'd works--yet lo, like a swift-running river they + fade, + Pass and are gone they fade--I dwell not on soldiers' perils or + soldiers' joys, + (Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was + content.) + + But in silence, in dreams' projections, + While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, + So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the + sand, + With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up + there, + Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.) + + Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, + Straight and swift to my wounded I go, + Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, + Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground, + Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital, + To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, + To each and all one after another I drawn near, not one do I miss, + An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, + Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd + again. + + I onward go, I stop, + With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, + I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, + One turns to me his appealing eyes-poor boy! I never knew you, + Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that + would save you. + +3 + + On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) + The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage + away,) + The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I + examine, + Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life + struggles hard, + (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! + In mercy come quickly.) + + From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, + I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and + blood, + Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and + side-falling head, + His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the + bloody stump, + And has not yet look'd on it. + + I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, + But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, + And the yellow-blue countenance see. + + I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, + Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so + offensive, + While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail. + + I am faithful, I do not give out, + The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, + These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a + fire, a burning flame.) + +4 + + Thus in silence in dreams' projections, + Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, + The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, + I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, + Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, + (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and + rested, + Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.) + + + + +LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA. + + + Long, too long America, + Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and + prosperity only, + But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, + grappling with direst fate and recoiling not, + And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse + really are, + (For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse + really are?) + + + + +GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN. + + +1 + + Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling, + Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, + Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows, + Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape, + Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching + content, + Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the + Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, + Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can + walk undisturb'd, + Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman of whom I should never + tire, + Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the + world a rural domestic life, + Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own + ears only, + Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal + sanities! + + These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and + rack'd by the war-strife,) + These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, + While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city, + Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets, + Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time refusing to give me up, + Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul, you give me forever + faces; + (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, + I see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for.) + +2 + + Keep your splendid silent sun, + Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, + Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and + orchards, + Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; + Give me faces and streets--give me these phantoms incessant and + endless along the trottoirs! + Give me interminable eyes--give me women--give me comrades and lovers + by the thousand! + Let me see new ones every day--let me hold new ones by the hand every + day! + Give me such shows--give me the streets of Manhattan! + Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching--give me the sound of + the trumpets and drums! + (The soldiers in companies or regiments--some starting away, flush'd + and reckless, + Some, their time up, returning with thinn'd ranks, young, yet very + old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;) + Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! + O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied! + The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! + The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the + torchlight procession! + The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons + following; + People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, + Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as + now, + The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even + the sight of the wounded,) + Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! + Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. + + + + +DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS. + + + The last sunbeam + Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath, + On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, + Down a new-made double grave. + + Lo, the moon ascending, + Up from the east the silvery round moon, + Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, + Immense and silent moon. + + I see a sad procession, + And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles, + All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, + As with voices and with tears. + + I hear the great drums pounding, + And the small drums steady whirring, + And every blow of the great convulsive drums, + Strikes me through and through. + + For the son is brought with the father, + (In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, + Two veterans son and father dropt together, + And the double grave awaits them.) + + Now nearer blow the bugles, + And the drums strike more convulsive, + And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, + And the strong dead-march enwraps me. + + In the eastern sky up-buoying, + The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd, + ('Tis some mother's large transparent face, + In heaven brighter growing.) + + O strong dead-march you please me! + O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! + O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! + What I have I also give you. + + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and the drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. + + + + +OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE. + + + Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice, + Be not dishearten'd, affection shall solve the problems of freedom + yet, + Those who love each other shall become invincible, + They shall yet make Columbia victorious. + + Sons of the Mother of All, you shall yet be victorious, + You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the remainder of the + earth. + + No danger shall balk Columbia's lovers, + If need be a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves for one. + One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade, + From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another an Oregonese, shall be + friends triune, + More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth. + + To Michigan, Florida perfumes shall tenderly come, + Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted beyond death. + + It shall be customary in the houses and streets to see manly + affection, + The most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face lightly, + The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers, + The continuance of equality shall be comrades. + + These shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops of iron, + I, ecstatic, O partners! O lands! with the love of lovers tie you. + + (Were you looking to be held together by lawyers? + Or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms? + Nay, nor the world, nor any living thing, will so cohere.) + + + + +I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY. + + + I saw old General at bay, + (Old as he was, his gray eyes yet shone out in battle like stars,) + His small force was now completely hemm'd in, in his works, + He call'd for volunteers to run the enemy's lines, a desperate + emergency, + I saw a hundred and more step forth from the ranks, but two or three + were selected, + I saw them receive their orders aside, they listen'd with care, the + adjutant was very grave, + I saw them depart with cheerfulness, freely risking their lives. + + + + +THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION. + + + While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long, + And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight + passes, + And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the + breath of my infant, + There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me; + The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal, + The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the + irregular snap! snap! + I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short _t-h-t! + t-h-t!_ of the rifle-balls, + I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds, I hear the + great shells shrieking as they pass, + The grape like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees + (tumultuous now the contest rages,) + All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again, + The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces, + The chief-gunner ranges and sights his piece and selects a fuse of + the right time, + After firing I see him lean aside and look eagerly off to note the + effect; + Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging, (the young colonel + leads himself this time with brandish'd sword,) + I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, (quickly fill'd up, no + delay,) + I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low + concealing all; + Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either + side, + Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and orders + of officers, + While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a + shout of applause, (some special success,) + And ever the sound of the cannon far or near, (rousing even in dreams + a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the depths + of my soul,) + And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions, batteries, + cavalry, moving hither and thither, + (The falling, dying, I heed not, the wounded dripping and red I heed + not, some to the rear are hobbling,) + Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camps galloping by or on a full run, + With the patter of small arms, the warning _s-s-t_ of the rifles, + (these in my vision I hear or see,) + And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-color'd rockets. + + + + +ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS. + + + Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, + With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet + Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colours greet? + + ('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, + Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me, + As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) + + _Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd, + A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, + Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought._ + + No further does she say, but lingering all the day, + Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, + And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. + + What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? + Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green? + Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen? + + + + +NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME. + + + Not youth pertains to me, + Nor delicatesse, I cannot beguile the time with talk, + Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant, + In the learn'd coterie sitting constrain'd and still, for learning + inures not to me, + Beauty, knowledge, inure not to me-yet there are two or three things + inure to me, + I have nourish'd the wounded and sooth'd many a dying soldier, + And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp, + Composed these songs. + + + + +RACE OF VETERANS. + + + Race of veterans--race of victors! + Race of the soil, ready for conflict--race of the conquering march; + (No more credulity's race, abiding-temper'd race,) + Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself, + Race of passion and the storm. + + + + +WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE. + + + World take good notice, silver stars fading, + Milky hue ript, weft of white detaching, + Coals thirty-eight, baleful and burning, + Scarlet, significant, hands off warning, + Now and henceforth flaunt from these shores. + + + + +O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY. + + + O tan-faced prairie-boy, + Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift, + Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the + recruits, + You came, taciturn, with nothing to give-we but look'd on each other, + When lo; more than all the gifts of the world you gave me. + + + + +LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON. + + + Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, + Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, + purple, + On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide, + Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. + + + + +RECONCILIATION. + + + Word over all, beautiful as the sky, + Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be + utterly lost, + That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash + again, and ever again, this soil'd world; + For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, + I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin-I draw near, + Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the + coffin. + + + + +HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE. + +(_Washington City, 1865._) + + + How solemn as one by one, + As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where I + stand, + As the faces the masks appear, as I glance at the faces studying the + masks, + (As I glance upward out of this page studying you, dear friend, + whoever you are,) + How solemn the thought of my whispering soul to each in the ranks, + and to you, + I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul, + O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend, + Nor the bayonet stab what you really are; + The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best, + Waiting secure and content, which the bullet could never kill, + Nor the bayonet stab O friend. + + + + +AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO. + + + As I lay with my head in your lap camerado, + The confession I made I resume, what I said to you and the open air I + resume, + I know I am restless and make others so, + I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death, + For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle + them, + I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have + been had all accepted me, + I heed not and have never heeded either experience, cautions, + majorities, nor ridicule, + And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing to me; + And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing to me; + Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still + urge you, without the least idea what is our destination, + Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and defeated. + + + + +DELICATE CLUSTER. + + + Delicate cluster! flag of teeming life! + Covering all my lands-all my seashores lining! + Flag of death! (how I watch'd you through the smoke of battle + pressing! + How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!) + Flag cerulean-sunny flag, with the orbs of night dappled! + Ah my silvery beauty-ah my woolly white and crimson! + Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty! + My sacred one, my mother. + + + + +TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN. + + + Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me? + Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing rhymes? + Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow? + Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand--nor + am I now; + (I have been born of the same as the war was born, + The drum-corps' rattle is ever to me sweet music, I love well the + martial dirge, + With slow wail and convulsive throb leading the officer's funeral;) + What to such as you anyhow such a poet as I? therefore leave my + works, + And go lull yourself with what you can understand, and with + piano-tunes, + For I lull nobody, and you will never understand me. + + + + +LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS. + + + Lo, Victress on the peaks, + Where thou with mighty brow regarding the world, + (The world O Libertad, that vainly conspired against thee,) + Out of its countless beleaguering toils, after thwarting them all, + Dominant, with the dazzling sun around thee, + Flauntest now unharm'd in immortal soundness and bloom--lo, in these + hours supreme, + No poem proud, I chanting bring to thee, nor mastery's rapturous + verse, + But a cluster containing night's darkness and blood-dripping wounds, + And psalms of the dead. + + + + +SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. + +(_Washington City, 1865._) + + + Spirit whose work is done--spirit of dreadful hours! + Ere departing fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; + Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering + pressing), + Spirit of many a solemn day and many a savage scene--electric spirit, + That with muttering voice through the war now closed, like a tireless + phantom flitted, + Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the + drum, + Now as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, + reverberates round me, + As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles, + As the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders, + As I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders, + As those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them appearing in the + distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward, + Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the right and left, + Evenly lightly rising and falling while the steps keep time; + Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death + next day, + Touch my mouth ere you depart, press my lips close, + Leave me your pulses of rage-bequeath them to me-fill me with + currents convulsive, + Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when you are gone, + Let them identify you to the future in these songs. + + + + +ADIEU TO A SOLDIER. + + + Adieu O soldier, + You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,) + The rapid march, the life of the camp, + The hot contention of opposing fronts, the long manoeuvre, + Bed battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong, terrific + game, + Spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you + and like of you all fill'd, + With war and war's expression. + + Adieu dear comrade, + Your mission is fulfill'd--but I, more warlike, + Myself and this contentious soul of mine, + Still on our own campaigning bound, + Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined, + Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis, often baffled, + Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out--aye here, + To fiercer, weightier battles give expression. + + + + +TURN O LIBERTAD. + + + Turn O Libertad, for the war is over, + From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, + sweeping the world, + Turn from lands retrospective recording proofs of the past, + From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past, + From the chants of the feudal world, the triumphs of kings, slavery, + caste, + Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come--give up that + backward world, + Leave to the singers of hitherto, give them the trailing past, + But what remains remains for singers for you--wars to come are for + you, + (Lo, how the wars of the past have duly inured to you, and the wars + of the present also inure;) + Then turn, and be not alarm'd O Libertad--turn your undying face, + To where the future, greater than all the past, + Is swiftly, surely preparing for you. + + + + +TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD. + + + To the leaven'd soil they trod calling I sing for the last, + (Forth from my tent emerging for good, loosing, untying the + tent-ropes,) + In the freshness the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and + vistas again to peace restored, + To the fiery fields emanative and the endless vistas beyond, to the + South and the North, + To the leaven'd soil of the general Western world to attest my songs, + To the Alleghanian hills and the tireless Mississippi, + To the rocks I calling sing, and all the trees in the woods, + To the plains of the poems of heroes, to the prairies spreading wide, + To the far-off sea and the unseen winds, and the sane impalpable air; + And responding they answer all, (but not in words,) + The average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely, + The prairie draws me close, as the father to bosom broad the son, + The Northern ice and rain that began me nourish me to the end, + But the hot sun of the South is to fully ripen my songs. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Drum Taps, by Walt Whitman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUM TAPS *** + +***** This file should be named 8801-8.txt or 8801-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/0/8801/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreading + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Drum Taps + +Author: Walt Whitman + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8801] +This file was first posted on August 10, 2003 +Last updated: May 2, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUM TAPS *** + + + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreading + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + DRUM-TAPS + </h1> + <h2> + By Walt Whitman + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> DRUM-TAPS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIRGINIA—THE WEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> CITY OF SHIPS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND THE ROAD + UNKNOWN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> NOT THE PILOT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE WOUND-DRESSER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> RACE OF VETERANS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> RECONCILIATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> DELICATE CLUSTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> ADIEU TO A SOLDIER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> TURN O LIBERTAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + NOTE + </p> + <p> + The Introduction is reprinted, by permission, from <i>The Times</i> + Literary Supplement of April 1, 1915. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + When the first days of August loured over the world, time seemed to stand + still. A universal astonishment and confusion fell, as upon a flock of + sheep perplexed by strange dogs. But now, though never before was a St. + Lucy's Day so black with "absence, darkness, death," Christmas is gone. + Spring comes swiftly, the almond trees flourish. Easter will soon be here. + Life breaks into beauty again and we realize that man may bring hell + itself into the world, but that Nature ever patiently waits to be his + natural paradise. Yet still a kind of instinctive blindness blots out the + prospect of the future. Until the long horror of the war is gone from our + minds, we shall be able to think of nothing that has not for its + background a chaotic darkness. Like every obsession, it gnaws at thought, + follows us into our dreams and returns with the morning. But there have + been other wars. And humanity, after learning as best it may their brutal + lesson, has survived them. Just as the young soldier leaves home behind + him and accepts hardship and danger as to the manner born, so, when he + returns again, life will resume its old quiet wont. Nature is not idle + even in the imagination. It is man's salvation to forget no less than it + is his salvation to remember. And it is wise even in the midst of the + conflict to look back on those that are past and to prepare for the + returning problems of the future. + </p> + <p> + When Whitman wrote his "Democratic Vistas," the long embittered war + between the Northern and Southern States of America was a thing only of + yesterday. It is a headlong amorphous production—a tangled meadow of + "leaves of grass" in prose. But it is as cogent to-day as it was when it + was written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the ostent of the senses and eyes [he writes], the influences + which stamp the world's history are wars, uprisings, or downfalls + of dynasties.... These, of course, play their part; yet, it may + be, a single new thought, imagination, abstract principle ... put + in shape by some great literatus, and projected among mankind, + may duly cause changes, growths, removals, greater than the + longest and bloodiest war, or the most stupendous merely + political, dynastic, or commercial overturn. +</pre> + <p> + The literatus who realized this had his own message in mind. And yet, + justly. For those who might point to the worldly prosperity and material + comforts of his country, and ask, Are not these better indeed than any + utterances even of greatest rhapsodic, artist, or literatus? he has his + irrefutable answer. He surveys the New York of 1870, "its façades of + marble and iron, of original grandeur and elegance of design," etc., in + his familiar catalogical jargon, and shutting his eyes to its glow and + grandeur, inquires in return, Are there indeed <i>men</i> here worthy the + name? Are there perfect women? Is there a pervading atmosphere of + beautiful manners? Are there arts worthy freedom and a rich people? Is + there a great moral and religious civilization—the only + justification of a great material one? We ourselves in good time shall + have to face and to answer these questions. They search our keenest hopes + of the peace that is coming. And we may be fortified perhaps by the + following queer proof of history repeating itself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Never, in the Old World, was thoroughly upholster'd exterior + appearance and show, mental and other, built entirely on the idea + of caste, and on the sufficiency of mere outside + acquisition—never were glibness, verbal intellect, more the + test, the emulation—more loftily elevated as head and sample— + than they are on the surface of our Republican States this day. + The writers of a time hint the mottoes of its gods. The word of + the modern, say these voices, is the word Culture. +</pre> + <p> + Whitman had no very tender regard for the Germany of his time. He fancied + that the Germans were like the Chinese, only less graceful and refined and + more brutish. But neither had he any particular affection for any relic of + Europe. "Never again will we trust the moral sense or abstract + friendliness of a single <i>Government</i> of the Old World." He accepted + selections from its literature for the new American Adam. But even its + greatest poets were not America's, and though he might welcome even + Juvenal, it was for use and not for worship. We have to learn, he insists, + that the best culture will always be that of the manly and courageous + instincts and loving perceptions, and of self-respect. In our children + rests every hope and promise, and therefore in their mothers. "Disengage + yourselves from parties.... These savage and wolfish parties alarm me.... + Hold yourself judge and master over all of them." Only faith can save us, + the faith in ourselves and in our fellow-men which is of the true faith in + goodness and in God. The idea of the mass of men, so fresh and free, so + loving and so proud, filled this poet with a singular awe. Passionately he + pleads for the dignity of the common people. It is the average man of a + land that is important. To win the people back to a proud belief and + confidence in life, to rapture in this wonderful world, to love and + admiration—this was his burning desire. I demand races of orbic + bards, he rhapsodizes, sweet democratic despots, to dominate and even + destroy. The Future! Vistas! The throes of birth are upon us. Allons, + camarado! + </p> + <p> + He could not despair. "Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the + baffled?" he asks himself in "Drum-Taps." But wildest shuttlecock of + criticism though he is, he has never yet been charged with looking only on + the dark side of things. Once, he says, "Once, before the war (alas! I + dare not say how many times the mood has come!), I too, was fill'd with + doubt and gloom." His part in it soothed, mellowed, deepened his great + nature. He had himself witnessed such misery, cruelty, and abomination as + it is best just now, perhaps, not to read about. One fact alone is enough; + that over fifty thousand Federal soldiers perished of starvation in + Southern prisons. Malarial fever contracted in camps and hospitals had + wrecked his health. During 1862-65 he visited, he says, eighty to a + hundred thousand sick and wounded soldiers, comprehending all, slighting + none. Rebel or compatriot, it made no difference. "I loved the young man," + he cries again and again. Pity and fatherliness were in his face, for his + heart was full of them. Mr. Gosse has described "the old Gray" as he saw + him in 1884, in his bare, littered sun-drenched room in Camden, shared by + kitten and canary: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He sat with a very curious pose of the head thrown backward, as + if resting it one vertebra lower down the spinal column than + other people do, and thus tilting his face a little upwards. With + his head so poised and the whole man fixed in contemplation of + the interlocutor he seemed to pass into a state of absolute + passivity ... the glassy eyes half closed, the large knotted + hands spread out before him. He resembled, in fact, nothing so + much as "a great old grey Angora Tom," alert in repose, serenely + blinking under his combed waves of hair, with eyes inscrutably + dreaming.... As I stood in dull, deserted Mickle Street once + more, my heart was full of affection for this beautiful old man + ... this old rhapsodist in his empty room, glorified by patience + and philosophy. +</pre> + <p> + Whitman was then sixty-five. In a portrait of thirty years before there is + just a wraith of that feline dream, perhaps, but it is a face of a rare + grace and beauty that looks out at us, of a profound kindness and + compassion. And, in the eyes, not so much penetration as visionary + absorption. Such was the man to whom nothing was unclean, nothing too + trivial (except "pale poetlings lisping cadenzas <i>piano</i>," who then + apparently thronged New York) to take to himself. Intensest, indomitablest + of individualists, he exulted in all that appertains to that forked + radish, Man. This contentious soul of mine, he exclaims ecstatically; + Viva: the attack! I have been born the same as the war was born; I lull + nobody, and you will never understand me: maybe I am non-literary and + un-decorous.... I have written impromptu, and shall let it all go at that. + Let me at least be human! Human, indeed, he was, a tender, all-welcoming + host of Everyman, of his idolized (if somewhat overpowering) American + democracy. Man in the street, in his swarms, poor crazed faces in the + State asylum, prisoners in Sing Sing, prostitute, whose dead body reminded + him not of a lost soul, but only of a sad, forlorn, and empty house—it + mattered not; he opened his heart to them, one and all. "I see beyond each + mark that wonder, a kindred soul. O the bullet could never kill what you + really are, dear friend." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. +</pre> + <p> + "Yours for you," he exclaims, welding in a phrase his unparalleled + egotism, his beautiful charity, "yours for you, who ever you are, as mine + for me." It is the essence of philosophy and of religion, for all the + wonders of heaven and earth are significant "only because of the Me in the + centre." + </p> + <p> + This was the secret of his tender, unassuming ministrations. He had none + of that shrinking timidity, that fear of intrusion, that uneasiness in the + presence of the tragic and the pitiful, which so often numb and oppress + those who would willingly give themselves and their best to the needy and + suffering, but whose intellect misgives them. He was that formidable + phenomenon, a dreamer of action. But he possessed a sovran good sense. + Food and rest and clean clothes were his scrupulous preparation for his + visits. He always assumed as cheerful an appearance as possible. Armed + with bright new five-cent and ten-cent bills (the wounded, he found, were + often "broke," and the sight of a little money "helped their spirits"), + with books and stationery and tobacco, for one a twist of good strong + green tea, for another a good home-made rice-pudding, or a jar of + sparkling but innocent blackberry and cherry syrup, a small bottle of + horse-radish pickle, or a large handsome apple, he would "make friends." + "What I have I also give you," he cried from the bottom of his grieved, + tempestuous heart. He would talk, or write letters—passionate + love-letters, too—or sit silent, in mute and tender kindness. "Long, + long, I gazed ... leaning my chin in my hands, passing sweet hours, + immortal and mystic hours, with you, dearest comrade—not a tear, not + a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my + soldier." And how many a mother must have blessed the stranger who could + bring such last news of a son as this: "And now like many other noble and + good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has yielded up his + young life at the very outset in her service. Such things are gloomy—yet + there is a text, 'God doeth all things well'—the meaning of which, + after due time, appears to the soul." It is only love that can comfort the + loving. + </p> + <p> + He forced nothing on these friends of a day, so many of them near their + last farewell. A poor wasted young man asks him to read a chapter in the + New Testament, and Whitman chooses that which describes Christ's + Crucifixion. He "ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ + rose again. I read very slowly, for he was feeble. It pleased him very + much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion. I + said 'Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, yet maybe, it is the same + thing.'" This is only one of many such serene intimacies in Whitman's + experiences of the war. Through them we reach to an understanding of a + poet who chose not signal and beautiful episodes out of the past, nor the + rare moments of existence, for theme, but took all life, within and around + him in vast bustling America, for his poetic province. Like a benign + barbaric sun he surveys the world, ever at noon. I am the man, I suffer'd, + I was there, he cries in the "Song of Myself." I do not despise you + priests, all times, the world over.... He could not despise anything, not + even his fellow-poets, because he himself was everything. His verse + sometimes seems mere verbiage, but it is always a higgledy-piggledy, Santa + Claus bagful of <i>things</i>. And he could penetrate to the essential + reality. He tells in his "Drum-Taps" how one daybreak he arose in camp, + and saw three still forms stretched out in the eastern radiance, how with + light fingers he just lifted the blanket from each cold face in turn: the + first elderly, gaunt, and grim—Who are you, my dear comrade? The + next with cheeks yet blooming—Who are you, sweet boy? The third—Young + man, I think I know you. I think this face is the face of the Christ + Himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies. + </p> + <p> + True poetry focuses experience, not merely transmits it. It must redeem it + for ever from transitoriness and evanescence. Whitman incontinently pours + experience out in a Niagara-like cataract. But in spite of his habitual + publicity he was at heart of a "shy, brooding, impassioned devotional + type"; in spite of his self-conscious, arrogant virility, he was to the + end of his life an entranced child. He came into the world, saw and + babbled. His deliberate method of writing could have had no other issue. A + subject would occur to him, a kind of tag. He would scribble it down on a + scrap of paper and drop it into a drawer. Day by day this first impulse + would evoke fresh "poemets," until at length the accumulation was + exhaustive. Then he merely gutted his treasury and the ode was complete. + It was only when sense and feeling attained a sort of ecstasy that he + succeeded in distilling the true essence that is poetry and in enstopping + it in a crystal phial of form. + </p> + <p> + The prose of his "Specimen Days," indeed, is often nearer to poetry than + his verse: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.... I often come and + sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as + softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so + handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time + as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without + the least start awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady + look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier—one long, + clear, silent look—a slight sigh—then turn'd back and went into + his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the + heart of the stranger that hover'd near. + + The western star, Venus, in the earlier hours of evening has + never been so large, so clear; it seems as if it told something, + as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity, with us Americans. + The sky dark blue, the transparent night, the planets, the + moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of that + great star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west, + suffused the soul. Then I heard slow and clear the deliberate + notes of a bugle come up out of the silence ... firm and + faithful, floating along, rising, falling leisurely, with here + and there a long-drawn note.... sounding tattoo. +</pre> + <p> + "A steady rain, dark and thick and warm," he writes again, two days after + Gettysburg. "The cavalry camp is a ceaseless field of observation to me. + This forenoon there stood the horses, tether'd together, dripping, + steaming, chewing their hay. The men emerge from their tents, dripping + also. The fires are half-quench'd." There is a poetic poise in this brief, + vivid statement, apart from its bare economy of means. It is the lump + awaiting the leaven no less than is "Cavalry Crossing a Ford." To this + supreme spectator an apple orchard in May, even the White House in + moonlight, no more and no less than these battle-scenes, rendered up their + dignity, life, and beauty, their true human significance. But in + "Drum-Taps" the witness is not always so satisfactory. The secret has + evaporated in the effort to <i>make</i> poetry, or half-consciously to + inject a moral, to play the Universal Bard. There creeps into the words a + tinge of the raw and the grotesque. The poet has the look of a cowboy off + the stage, tanned with grease-paint. But again and again the secret creeps + back and some lovely emanation of poetry is added to it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, + Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, + purple, + On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide, + Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. +</pre> + <p> + Or this, called "Reconciliation": + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Word over all, beautiful as the sky, + Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be + utterly lost, + That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash + again, and ever again, this soil'd world; + For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, + I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw + near, + Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the + coffin. +</pre> + <p> + The bonds of rhyme shackled him, deprived him of more than freedom. He is + like a wild bird that suddenly perceives the bars of its small cage across + the blue of the sky. And yet the finer his poems are, the nearer they + approach to definite rhythmical design. One has only to compare "O + Captain! my Captain!" with "Hushed be the Camps To-day" to perceive this + curious paradox. They are both of them memories of his beloved Lincoln, + whom he had many times seen, with that peculiarly close and transatlantic + curiosity of his, riding at a jog-trot, on a good-sized, easy-going grey + horse, with his escort of yellow-striped cavalry behind him, through the + streets of Washington—dressed in black, somewhat rusty and dusty, + with a black, stiff hat, almost as ordinary in attire as the commonest + man. That heroic face, too, he had pierced; and caught from it the deep, + subtle, indirect expression, that only the long-gone master-painters of + the Old World could have seized and immortalized. And in yet another + memory of this great American Whitman attains to his best and highest, + "When Lilacs Last in the Doorway Bloom'd." It is one of the most beautiful + of poems, of the purest intuition, of a consummate, if unconscious, + artistry. Whose voice is it that rings and echoes, now low and tender, now + solemn and desolate, now clear, full, victorious, out of its cloistral + solitude—that of the mourner himself, of all-heedfull, heedless + Nature, of the immortal soul of man, or just a bird, the shy and hidden, + sweet, small hermit thrush? The last division of his life's work—his + fond Epic, his cosmic "inventory"—as Whitman planned it, was to be + devoted to the chaunting of songs of death and immortality. The soldier to + whom he read of Christ's Resurrection talked of death to him, and said he + did not fear it. He talked to a man who did not enjoy religion in the way + a Christian means, to whom the mystery of Easter is an all-sufficing + "reliance." But Whitman not only did not fear death. The thought of it was + to him the strangest of raptures, the reverie of a child dreaming of a + distant mother, soon to come again. Death and immortality were but two + aspects of the same blessed hope to this man, who poured out his life in a + turgid fount of ecstatic joy in living: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... And I saw askant the armies, + I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, + Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I + saw them, + And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, + And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence), + And the staffs all splintered and broken. + + I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, + And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, + I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, + But I saw they were not as was thought, + They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, + The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, + And the wives and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd, + And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.... + + <i>Come lovely and soothing death, + Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, + In the night, in the day, to all, to each, + Sooner or later delicate death.</i> + + <i>Prais'd be the fathomless universe, + For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, + And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise! + For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.</i> + + <i>Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet + Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? + Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, + I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come + unfalteringly.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DRUM-TAPS + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + First O songs for a prelude, + Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city, + How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue, + How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang, + (O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! + O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than + steel!) + How you sprang—how you threw off the costumes of peace with + indifferent hand, + How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard + in their stead, + How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of + soldiers,) + How Manhattan drum-taps led. + + Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading, + Forty years as a pageant, still unawares the lady of this teeming and + turbulent city, + Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, + With her million children around her, suddenly, + At dead of night, at news from the south, + Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement. + + A shock electric, the night sustain'd it, + Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads. + From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the doorways, + Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming. + + To the drum-taps prompt, + The young men falling in and arming, + The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's + hammer, tost aside with precipitation,) + The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the + court, + The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing + the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, + The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all + leaving; + Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm, + The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their + accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully, + Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musketbarrels, + The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the + sunrise cannon and again at sunset, + Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark + from the wharves, + (How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with + their guns on their shoulders! + How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces and + their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!) + The blood of the city up—arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere, + The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the + public buildings and stores, + The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his + mother, + (Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain + him,) + The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the + way, + The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their + favorites, + The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along, rumble + lightly over the stones, + (Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence, + Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business;) + All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming, + The hospital service, the lint, bandages and medicines, + The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest, no + mere parade now; + War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no turning + away; + War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing to + welcome it. + + Mannahatta a-march—and it's O to sing it well! + It's O for a manly life in the camp. + + And the sturdy artillery, + The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns, + Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for + courtesies merely, + Put in something now besides powder and wadding.) + + And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta, + Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city, + Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown'd amid + all your children, + But now you smile with joy exulting old Mannahatta. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Arm'd year—year of the struggle, + No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you terrible year, + Not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenzas + piano, + But as a strong man erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing, + carrying a rifle on your shoulder, + With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands, with a knife in + the belt at your side, + As I heard you shouting loud, your sonorous voice ringing across the + continent, + Your masculine voice O year, as rising amid the great cities, + Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you as one of the workmen, the + dwellers in Manhattan, + Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and + Indiana, + Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait and descending the + Alleghanies, + Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along the + Ohio river, + Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at + Chattanooga on the mountain top, + Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs clothed in blue, bearing + weapons, robust year, + Heard your determin'd voice launch'd forth again and again, + Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp'd cannon, + I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! + Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force, + Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, + Into the school where the scholar is studying; + Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with + his bride, + Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering + his grain, + So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. + + Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! + Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; + Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers + must sleep in those beds, + No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they + continue? + Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? + Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the + judge? + Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow. + + Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! + Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, + Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, + Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, + Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, + Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the + hearses, + So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird, + Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all, + To the north betaking myself to sing there arctic songs, + To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself, to Michigan then, + To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are + inimitable;) + Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs, to Missouri and Kansas and + Arkansas to sing theirs, + To Tennessee and Kentucky, to the Carolinas and Georgia to sing + theirs, + To Texas and so along up toward California, to roam accepted + everywhere; + To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum if need be,) + The idea of all, of the Western world one and inseparable, + And then the song of each member of these States. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Poet.</i> + O a new song, a free song, + Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer, + By the wind's voice and that of the drum, + By the banner's voice and child's voice and sea's voice and father's + voice, + Low on the ground and high in the air, + On the ground where father and child stand, + In the upward air where their eyes turn, + Where the banner at daybreak is flapping. + + Words! bookwords! what are you? + Words no more, for hearken and see, + My song is there in the open air, and I must sing, + With the banner and pennant a-flapping. + + I'll weave the chord and twine in, + Man's desire and babe's desire, I'll twine them in, I'll put in life, + I'll put the bayonet's flashing point, I'll let bullets and slugs + whizz, + (As one carrying a symbol and menace far into the future, + Crying with trumpet voice, <i>Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!</i>) + I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of + joy. + Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete, + With the banner and pennant a-flapping. + + <i>Pennant.</i> + Come up here, bard, bard, + Come up here, soul, soul, + Come up here, dear little child, + To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless + light. + + <i>Child.</i> + Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger? + And what does it say to me all the while? + + <i>Father.</i> + Nothing my babe you see in the sky, + And nothing at all to you it says—but look you my babe, + Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the + money-shops opening, + And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with + goods; + These, ah these, how valued and toil'd for these! + How envied by all the earth. + + <i>Poet.</i> + Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high, + On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels, + On floats the wind over the breast of the sea setting in toward land, + The great steady wind from west or west-by-south, + Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters. + + But I am not the sea nor the red sun, + I am not the wind with girlish laughter, + Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which lashes, + Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death, + But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings, + Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land, + Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings, + And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner and + pennant, + Aloft there flapping and flapping. + + <i>Child.</i> + O father it is alive—it is full of people—it has children, + O now it seems to me it is talking to its children, + I hear it—it talks to me—O it is wonderful! + O it stretches—it spreads and runs so fast—O my father, + It is so broad it covers the whole sky. + + <i>Father.</i> + Cease, cease, my foolish babe, + What you are saying is sorrowful to me, much it displeases me; + Behold with the rest again I say, behold not banners and pennants + aloft, + But the well-prepared pavements behold, and mark the solid-wall'd + houses. + + <i>Banner and Pennant.</i> + Speak to the child O bard out of Manhattan, + To our children all, or north or south of Manhattan, + Point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all—and yet we know + not why, + For what are we, mere strips of cloth profiting nothing, + Only flapping in the wind? + + <i>Poet.</i> + I hear and see not strips of cloth alone, + I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry, + I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men, I hear Liberty! + I hear the drums beat and the trumpets blowing, + I myself move abroad swift-rising flying then, + I use the wings of the land-bird and use the wings of the sea-bird, + and look down as from a height, + I do not deny the precious results of peace, I see populous cities + with wealth incalculable, + I see numberless farms, I see the farmers working in their fields or + barns, + I see mechanics working, I see buildings everywhere founded, going + up, or finished, + I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn by + the locomotives, + I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New + Orleans, + I see far in the West the immense area of grain, I dwell awhile + hovering, + I pass to the lumber forests of the North, and again to the Southern + plantation, and again to California; + Sweeping the whole I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, + earn'd wages, + See the Identity formed out of thirty-eight spacious and haughty + States, (and many more to come,) + See forts on the shores of harbors, see ships sailing in and out; + Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen'd pennant shaped + like a sword, + Runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance—and now the halyards + have rais'd it, + Side of my banner broad and blue, side of my starry banner, + Discarding peace over all the sea and land. + + <i>Banner and Pennant.</i> + Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave! + No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone, + We may be terror and carnage, and are so now, + Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any + five, nor ten,) + Nor market nor depot we, nor money-bank in the city, + But these and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines + below, are ours, + And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small, + And the fields they moisten, and the crops and the fruits are ours, + Bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours—while we + over all, + Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square + miles, the capitals, + The forty millions of people,—O bard! in life and death supreme, + We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above, + Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you, + This song to the soul of one poor little child. + + <i>Child.</i> + O my father I like not the houses, + They will never to me be any thing, nor do I like money, + But to mount up there I would like, O father dear, that banner I + like, + That pennant I would be and must be. + + <i>Father.</i> + Child of mine you fill me with anguish, + To be that pennant would be too fearful, + Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever, + It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy every thing, + Forward to stand in front of wars—and O, such wars!—what have you + to do with them? + With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death? + + <i>Banner.</i> + Demons and death then I sing, + Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war, + And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of + children, + Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the + sea, + And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke, + And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and + pines, + And the whirr of drums and the sound of soldiers marching, and the + hot sun shining south, + And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my Eastern shore, and + my Western shore the same, + And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi with + bends and chutes, + And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of + Missouri, + The Continent, devoting the whole identity without reserving an atom, + Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all and the yield + of all, + Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole, + No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound, + But out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more, + Croaking like crows here in the wind. + + <i>Poet</i>. + My limbs, my veins dilate, my theme is clear at last, + Banner so broad advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and + resolute, + I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd and blinded, + My hearing and tongue are come to me, (a little child taught me,) + I hear from above O pennant of war your ironical call and demand, + Insensate! insensate! (yet I at any rate chant you,) O banner! + Not houses of peace indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity, + (if need be, you shall again have every one of those houses + to destroy them, + You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full + of comfort, built with money, + May they stand fast, then? not an hour except you above them and all + stand fast;) + O banner, not money so precious are you, not farm produce you, nor + the material good nutriment, + Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships, + Not the superb ships with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and + carrying cargoes, + Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues—but you as henceforth I + see you, + Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, + (ever-enlarging stars,) + Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touch'd by the sun, + measuring the sky, + (Passionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little child, + While others remain busy or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, + thrift;) + O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake hissing so + curious, + Out of reach, an idea only, yet furiously fought for, risking bloody + death, loved by me, + So loved—O you banner leading the day with stars brought from the + night! + Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all—(absolute + owner of all)—O banner and pennant! + I too leave the rest—great as it is, it is nothing—houses, machines + are nothing—I see them not, + I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I + sing you only, + Flapping up there in the wind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS. + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rise O days from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer + sweep, + Long for my soul hungering gymnastic I devour'd what the earth gave + me, + Long I roam'd the woods of the north, long I watch'd Niagara pouring, + I travel'd the prairies over and slept on their breast, I cross'd the + Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus, + I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd out to sea, + I sail'd through the storm, I was refresh'd by the storm, + I watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves, + I mark'd the white combs where they career'd so high, curling over, + I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds, + Saw from below what arose and mounted (O superb! O wild as my heart, + and powerful!) + Heard the continuous thunder as it bellow'd after the lightning, + Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning as sudden and fast + amid the din they chased each other across the sky; + These, and such as these, I, elate, saw—saw with wonder, yet pensive + and masterful, + All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me, + Yet there with my soul I fed, I fed content, supercilious. +</pre> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas well, O soul—'twas a good preparation you gave me, + Now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill, + Now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea never gave us, + Not through the mighty woods we go, but through the mightier cities, + Something for us is pouring now more than Niagara pouring, + Torrents of men, (sources and rills of the Northwest are you indeed + inexhaustible?) + What, to pavements and homesteads here, what were those storms of the + mountains and sea? + What, to passions I witness around me to-day? was the sea risen? + Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds? + Lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more deadly and savage, + Manhattan rising, advancing with menacing front—Cincinnati, Chicago, + unchain'd; + What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold what comes here, + How it climbs with daring feet and hands—how it dashes! + How the true thunder bellows after the lightning—how bright the + flashes of lightning! + How Democracy with desperate vengeful port strides on, shown through + the dark by those flashes of lightning! + (Yet a mournful wail and low sob I fancied I heard through the dark, + In a lull of the deafening confusion.) +</pre> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thunder on! stride on, Democracy! strike with vengeful stroke! + And do you rise higher than ever yet O days, O cities! + Crash heavier, heavier yet O storms! you have done me good, + My soul prepared in the mountains absorbs your immortal strong + nutriment, + Long had I walk'd my cities, my country roads through farms, only + half satisfied, + One doubt nauseous undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground + before me, + Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically + hissing low; + The cities I loved so well I abandon'd and left, I sped to the + certainties suitable to me, + Hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies and Nature's + dauntlessness, + I refresh'd myself with it only, I could relish it only, + I waited the bursting forth of the pent fire—on the water and air I + waited long; + But now I no longer wait, I am fully satisfied, I am glutted, + I have witness'd the true lightning, I have witness'd my cities + electric, + I have lived to behold man burst forth and warlike America rise, + Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds, + No more the mountains roam or sail the stormy sea. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIRGINIA—THE WEST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The noble sire fallen on evil days, + I saw with hand uplifted, menacing, brandishing, + (Memories of old in abeyance, love and faith in abeyance,) + The insane knife toward the Mother of All. + + The noble son on sinewy feet advancing, + I saw, out of the land of prairies, land of Ohio's waters and of + Indiana, + To the rescue the stalwart giant hurry his plenteous offspring, + Drest in blue, bearing their trusty rifles on their shoulders. + + Then the Mother of All with calm voice speaking, + As to you Rebellious, (I seemed to hear her say,) why strive against + me, and why seek my life? + When you yourself forever provide to defend me? + For you provided me Washington—and now these also. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CITY OF SHIPS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + City of ships! + (O the black ships! O the fierce ships! + O the beautiful sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!) + City of the world! (for all races are here, + All the lands of the earth make contributions here;) + City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides! + City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and + out with eddies and foam! + City of wharves and stores—city of tall façades of marble and iron! + Proud and passionate city—mettlesome, mad, extravagant city! + Spring up, O city—not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, + warlike! + Fear not—submit to no models but your own O city! + Behold me—incarnate me as I have incarnated you! + I have rejected nothing you offer'd me—whom you adopted I have + adopted, + Good or bad I never question you—I love all—I do not condemn any + thing, + I chant and celebrate all that is yours—yet peace no more, + In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine, + War, red war is my song through your streets, O city! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Volunteer of 1861-2, (at Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the + Centenarian.)</i> + + Give me your hand old Revolutionary, + The hill-top is nigh, but a few steps, (make room gentlemen,) + Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite of your hundred and + extra years, + You can walk old man, though your eyes are almost done, + Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me. + Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means, + On the plain below recruits are drilling and exercising, + There is the camp, one regiment departs to-morrow, + Do you hear the officers giving their orders? + Do you hear the clank of the muskets? + + Why what comes over you now old man? + Why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively? + The troops are but drilling, they are yet surrounded with smiles. + Around them at hand the well-drest friends and the women, + While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down, + Green the midsummer verdure and fresh blows the dallying breeze, + O'er proud and peaceful cities and arm of the sea between. + But drill and parade are over, they march back to quarters, + Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! + + As wending the crowds now part and disperse—but we old man, + Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must remain, + You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. + + <i>The Centenarian.</i> + + When I clutch'd your hand it was not with terror, + But suddenly pouring about me here on every side, + And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they + ran, + And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see south and + south-east and south-west, + Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, + And along the shores, in mire (now fill'd over) came again and + suddenly raged, + As eighty-five years a-gone no mere parade receiv'd with applause of + friends, + But a battle which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is I + took part in it, + Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. + + Aye, this is the ground, + My blind eyes even as I speak behold it re-peopled from graves, + The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear, + Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are mounted, + I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to bay, + I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes; + Here we lay encamp'd, it was this time in summer also. + + As I talk I remember all, I remember the Declaration, + It was read here, the whole army paraded, it was read to us here, + By his staff surrounded the General stood in the middle, he held up + his unsheath'd sword, + It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army. + + 'Twas a bold act then—the English war-ships had just arrived, + We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, + And the transports swarming with soldiers. + + A few days more and they landed, and then the battle. + + Twenty thousand were brought against us, + A veteran force furnish'd with good artillery. + I tell not now the whole of the battle, + But one brigade early in the forenoon order'd forward to engage the + red-coats, + Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd, + And how long and well it stood confronting death. + + Who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting + death? + It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, + Raised in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known personally to + the General. + + Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus' waters, + Till of a sudden unlook'd for by defiles through the woods, gain'd at + night, + The British advancing, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing + their guns, + That brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy's mercy. + + The General watch'd them from this hill, + They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment, + They drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the + middle, + But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! + + It sickens me yet, that slaughter! + I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General. + I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. + + Meanwhile the British manoeuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle, + But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle. + + We fought the fight in detachments. + Sallying forth we fought at several points, but in each the luck was + against us, + Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back to + the works on this hill, + Till we turn'd menacing here, and then he left us. + + That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two + thousand strong, + Few return'd, nearly all remain in Brooklyn. + That and here my General's first battle, + No women looking on nor sunshine to bask in, it did not conclude with + applause, + Nobody clapp'd hands here then. + + But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain, + Wearied that night we lay foil'd and sullen, + While scornfully laugh'd many an arrogant lord oft' against us + encamp'd, + Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over + their victory. + + So dull and damp and another day, + But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, + Silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him, my + General retreated. + + I saw him at the river-side, + Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; + My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass'd over, + And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the + last time. + + Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom, + Many no doubt thought of capitulation. + + But when my General pass'd me, + As he stood in his boat and look'd toward the coming sun, + I saw something different from capitulation. + + <i>Terminus.</i> + + Enough, the Centenarian's story ends, + The two, the past and present, have interchanged, + I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now + speaking. + + And is this the ground Washington trod? + And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he + cross'd, + As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs? + + I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward, + I must preserve that look as it beam'd on you rivers of Brooklyn. + + See—as the annual round returns the phantoms return, + It is the 27th of August and the British have landed, + The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke + Washington's face, + The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to intercept + the enemy, + They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them, + Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, + Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds, + In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears. + + Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable + than your owners supposed; + In the midst of you stands an encampment very old, + Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, + They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun—hark to + the musical clank, + Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop + to drink, + Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the + negligent rest on the saddles, + Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the + ford—while + Scarlet and blue and snowy white, + The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I see before me now a traveling army halting, + Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer, + Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising + high, + Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily + seen, + The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the + mountain, + The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, + flickering, + And over all the sky—the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, + breaking out, the eternal stars. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, + With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an + irregular volley, + The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, + Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun—the dust-cover'd men, + In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, + With artillery interspers'd—the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, + As the army corps advances. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the bivouac's fitful flame, + A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow—but first + I note, + The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim out-line, + The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence, + Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving, + The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily + watching me,) + While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts, + Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that + are far away; + A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground, + By the bivouac's fitful flame. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, + And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son. + + Lo, 'tis autumn, + Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, + Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the + moderate wind, + Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd + vines, + (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? + Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) + Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and + with wondrous clouds, + Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers + well. + + Down in the fields all prospers well, + But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's call, + And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. + + Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, + She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap. + + Open the envelope quickly, + O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, + O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul! + All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main + words only, + Sentences broken, <i>gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, + taken to hospital, + At present low, but will soon be better.</i> + + Ah now the single figure to me, + Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, + Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, + By the jamb of a door leans. + + <i>Grieve not so, dear mother</i>, (the just-grown daughter speaks through + her sobs, + The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd,) + <i>See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.</i> + + Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be + better, that brave and simple soul,) + While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, + The only son is dead. + + But the mother needs to be better, + She with thin form presently drest in black, + By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often + waking, + In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, + O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and + withdraw, + To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Vigil strange I kept on the field one night; + When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day, + One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall + never forget, + One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the + ground, + Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle, + Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my + way, + Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of + responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,) + Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the + moderate night-wind, + Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the + battle-field spreading, + Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night, + But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, + Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my + chin in my hands, + Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest + comrade—not a tear, not a word, + Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my + soldier, + As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole, + Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your + death, + I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall + surely meet again,) + Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn + appear'd, + My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form, + Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully + under feet, + And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, + in his rude-dug grave I deposited, + Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field + dim, + Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth + responding,) + Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day + brighten'd, + I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his + blanket, + And buried him where he fell. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND THE ROAD UNKNOWN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown, + A route through a heavy wood with muffled steps in the darkness, + Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating, + Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted + building, + We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted + building, + 'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads, now an impromptu + hospital, + Entering but for a minute I see a sight beyond all the pictures and + poems ever made, + Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and + lamps, + And by one great pitchy torch stationary with wild red flame and + clouds of smoke, + By these, crowds, groups of forms vaguely I see on the floor, some in + the pews laid down, + At my feet more distinctly a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of + bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen,) + I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a + lily,) + Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene fain to absorb it + all, + Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, + some of them dead, + Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, + the odor of blood, + The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside also + fill'd, + Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the + death-spasm sweating, + An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls, + The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the + torches, + These I resume as I chant, I see again the forms, I smell the odor, + Then hear outside the orders given, <i>Fall in, my men, fall in</i>; + But first I bend to the dying lad, his eyes open, a half-smile gives + he me, + Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness, + Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks, + The unknown road still marching. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, + As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless, + As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital + tent, + Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended + lying, + Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket, + Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. + + Curious I halt and silent stand, + Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just + lift the blanket; + Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and + flesh all sunken about the eyes? + Who are you my dear comrade? + + Then to the second I step-and who are you my child and darling? + Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? + + Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of + beautiful yellow-white ivory; + Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the + Christ himself, + Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, + To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas autumn,) + I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; + Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all could I + understand,) + The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to lose-yet this sign + left, + On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, + <i>Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.</i> + + Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, + Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life, + Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in + the crowded street, + Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the inscription + rude in Virginia's woods, + <i>Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOT THE PILOT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, + though beaten back and many times baffled; + Not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long, + By deserts parch'd, snows chill'd, rivers wet, perseveres till he + reaches his destination, + More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a + march for these States, + For a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries + hence. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me! + Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me, + A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me, + Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself, + Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled? + And sullen hymns of defeat? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WOUND-DRESSER. + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An old man bending I come among new faces, + Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, + Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, + (Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge + relentless war, + But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself, + To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;) + Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these + chances, + Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally + brave;) + Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, + Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us? + What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, + Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains? +</pre> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O maidens and young men I love and that love me, + What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking + recalls, + Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and + dust, + In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the + rush of successful charge, + Enter the captur'd works—yet lo, like a swift-running river they + fade, + Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers' perils or + soldiers' joys, + (Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was + content.) + + But in silence, in dreams' projections, + While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, + So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the + sand, + With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up + there, + Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.) + + Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, + Straight and swift to my wounded I go, + Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, + Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground, + Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital, + To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, + To each and all one after another I drawn near, not one do I miss, + An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, + Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd + again. + + I onward go, I stop, + With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, + I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, + One turns to me his appealing eyes-poor boy! I never knew you, + Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that + would save you. +</pre> + <h3> + 3 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) + The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage + away,) + The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I + examine, + Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life + struggles hard, + (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! + In mercy come quickly.) + + From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, + I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and + blood, + Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and + side-falling head, + His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the + bloody stump, + And has not yet look'd on it. + + I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, + But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, + And the yellow-blue countenance see. + + I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, + Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so + offensive, + While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail. + + I am faithful, I do not give out, + The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, + These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a + fire, a burning flame.) +</pre> + <h3> + 4 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thus in silence in dreams' projections, + Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, + The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, + I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, + Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, + (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and + rested, + Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Long, too long America, + Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and + prosperity only, + But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, + grappling with direst fate and recoiling not, + And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse + really are, + (For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse + really are?) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN. + </h2> + <h3> + 1 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling, + Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, + Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows, + Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape, + Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching + content, + Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the + Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, + Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can + walk undisturb'd, + Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman of whom I should never + tire, + Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the + world a rural domestic life, + Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own + ears only, + Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal + sanities! + + These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and + rack'd by the war-strife,) + These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, + While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city, + Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets, + Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time refusing to give me up, + Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul, you give me forever + faces; + (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, + I see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for.) +</pre> + <h3> + 2 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Keep your splendid silent sun, + Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, + Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and + orchards, + Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; + Give me faces and streets—give me these phantoms incessant and + endless along the trottoirs! + Give me interminable eyes—give me women—give me comrades and lovers + by the thousand! + Let me see new ones every day—let me hold new ones by the hand every + day! + Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan! + Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give me the sound of + the trumpets and drums! + (The soldiers in companies or regiments—some starting away, flush'd + and reckless, + Some, their time up, returning with thinn'd ranks, young, yet very + old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;) + Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! + O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied! + The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! + The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the + torchlight procession! + The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons + following; + People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, + Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as + now, + The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even + the sight of the wounded,) + Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! + Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The last sunbeam + Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath, + On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, + Down a new-made double grave. + + Lo, the moon ascending, + Up from the east the silvery round moon, + Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, + Immense and silent moon. + + I see a sad procession, + And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles, + All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, + As with voices and with tears. + + I hear the great drums pounding, + And the small drums steady whirring, + And every blow of the great convulsive drums, + Strikes me through and through. + + For the son is brought with the father, + (In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, + Two veterans son and father dropt together, + And the double grave awaits them.) + + Now nearer blow the bugles, + And the drums strike more convulsive, + And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, + And the strong dead-march enwraps me. + + In the eastern sky up-buoying, + The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd, + ('Tis some mother's large transparent face, + In heaven brighter growing.) + + O strong dead-march you please me! + O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! + O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! + What I have I also give you. + + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and the drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice, + Be not dishearten'd, affection shall solve the problems of freedom + yet, + Those who love each other shall become invincible, + They shall yet make Columbia victorious. + + Sons of the Mother of All, you shall yet be victorious, + You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the remainder of the + earth. + + No danger shall balk Columbia's lovers, + If need be a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves for one. + One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade, + From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another an Oregonese, shall be + friends triune, + More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth. + + To Michigan, Florida perfumes shall tenderly come, + Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted beyond death. + + It shall be customary in the houses and streets to see manly + affection, + The most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face lightly, + The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers, + The continuance of equality shall be comrades. + + These shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops of iron, + I, ecstatic, O partners! O lands! with the love of lovers tie you. + + (Were you looking to be held together by lawyers? + Or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms? + Nay, nor the world, nor any living thing, will so cohere.) +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw old General at bay, + (Old as he was, his gray eyes yet shone out in battle like stars,) + His small force was now completely hemm'd in, in his works, + He call'd for volunteers to run the enemy's lines, a desperate + emergency, + I saw a hundred and more step forth from the ranks, but two or three + were selected, + I saw them receive their orders aside, they listen'd with care, the + adjutant was very grave, + I saw them depart with cheerfulness, freely risking their lives. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long, + And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight + passes, + And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the + breath of my infant, + There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me; + The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal, + The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the + irregular snap! snap! + I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short <i>t-h-t! + t-h-t!</i> of the rifle-balls, + I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds, I hear the + great shells shrieking as they pass, + The grape like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees + (tumultuous now the contest rages,) + All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again, + The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces, + The chief-gunner ranges and sights his piece and selects a fuse of + the right time, + After firing I see him lean aside and look eagerly off to note the + effect; + Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging, (the young colonel + leads himself this time with brandish'd sword,) + I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, (quickly fill'd up, no + delay,) + I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low + concealing all; + Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either + side, + Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and orders + of officers, + While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a + shout of applause, (some special success,) + And ever the sound of the cannon far or near, (rousing even in dreams + a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the depths + of my soul,) + And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions, batteries, + cavalry, moving hither and thither, + (The falling, dying, I heed not, the wounded dripping and red I heed + not, some to the rear are hobbling,) + Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camps galloping by or on a full run, + With the patter of small arms, the warning <i>s-s-t</i> of the rifles, + (these in my vision I hear or see,) + And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-color'd rockets. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, + With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet + Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colours greet? + + ('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, + Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me, + As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) + + <i>Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd, + A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, + Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought.</i> + + No further does she say, but lingering all the day, + Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, + And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. + + What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? + Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green? + Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not youth pertains to me, + Nor delicatesse, I cannot beguile the time with talk, + Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant, + In the learn'd coterie sitting constrain'd and still, for learning + inures not to me, + Beauty, knowledge, inure not to me-yet there are two or three things + inure to me, + I have nourish'd the wounded and sooth'd many a dying soldier, + And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp, + Composed these songs. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RACE OF VETERANS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Race of veterans—race of victors! + Race of the soil, ready for conflict—race of the conquering march; + (No more credulity's race, abiding-temper'd race,) + Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself, + Race of passion and the storm. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + World take good notice, silver stars fading, + Milky hue ript, weft of white detaching, + Coals thirty-eight, baleful and burning, + Scarlet, significant, hands off warning, + Now and henceforth flaunt from these shores. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O tan-faced prairie-boy, + Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift, + Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the + recruits, + You came, taciturn, with nothing to give-we but look'd on each other, + When lo; more than all the gifts of the world you gave me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, + Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, + purple, + On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide, + Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RECONCILIATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Word over all, beautiful as the sky, + Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be + utterly lost, + That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash + again, and ever again, this soil'd world; + For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, + I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin-I draw near, + Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the + coffin. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE. + </h2> + <h3> + (<i>Washington City, 1865.</i>) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How solemn as one by one, + As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where I + stand, + As the faces the masks appear, as I glance at the faces studying the + masks, + (As I glance upward out of this page studying you, dear friend, + whoever you are,) + How solemn the thought of my whispering soul to each in the ranks, + and to you, + I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul, + O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend, + Nor the bayonet stab what you really are; + The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best, + Waiting secure and content, which the bullet could never kill, + Nor the bayonet stab O friend. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I lay with my head in your lap camerado, + The confession I made I resume, what I said to you and the open air I + resume, + I know I am restless and make others so, + I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death, + For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle + them, + I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have + been had all accepted me, + I heed not and have never heeded either experience, cautions, + majorities, nor ridicule, + And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing to me; + And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing to me; + Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still + urge you, without the least idea what is our destination, + Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and defeated. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DELICATE CLUSTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Delicate cluster! flag of teeming life! + Covering all my lands-all my seashores lining! + Flag of death! (how I watch'd you through the smoke of battle + pressing! + How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!) + Flag cerulean-sunny flag, with the orbs of night dappled! + Ah my silvery beauty-ah my woolly white and crimson! + Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty! + My sacred one, my mother. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me? + Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing rhymes? + Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow? + Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand—nor + am I now; + (I have been born of the same as the war was born, + The drum-corps' rattle is ever to me sweet music, I love well the + martial dirge, + With slow wail and convulsive throb leading the officer's funeral;) + What to such as you anyhow such a poet as I? therefore leave my + works, + And go lull yourself with what you can understand, and with + piano-tunes, + For I lull nobody, and you will never understand me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lo, Victress on the peaks, + Where thou with mighty brow regarding the world, + (The world O Libertad, that vainly conspired against thee,) + Out of its countless beleaguering toils, after thwarting them all, + Dominant, with the dazzling sun around thee, + Flauntest now unharm'd in immortal soundness and bloom—lo, in these + hours supreme, + No poem proud, I chanting bring to thee, nor mastery's rapturous + verse, + But a cluster containing night's darkness and blood-dripping wounds, + And psalms of the dead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. + </h2> + <h3> + (<i>Washington City, 1865.</i>) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Spirit whose work is done—spirit of dreadful hours! + Ere departing fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; + Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering + pressing), + Spirit of many a solemn day and many a savage scene—electric spirit, + That with muttering voice through the war now closed, like a tireless + phantom flitted, + Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the + drum, + Now as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, + reverberates round me, + As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles, + As the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders, + As I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders, + As those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them appearing in the + distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward, + Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the right and left, + Evenly lightly rising and falling while the steps keep time; + Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death + next day, + Touch my mouth ere you depart, press my lips close, + Leave me your pulses of rage-bequeath them to me-fill me with + currents convulsive, + Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when you are gone, + Let them identify you to the future in these songs. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ADIEU TO A SOLDIER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Adieu O soldier, + You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,) + The rapid march, the life of the camp, + The hot contention of opposing fronts, the long manoeuvre, + Bed battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong, terrific + game, + Spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you + and like of you all fill'd, + With war and war's expression. + + Adieu dear comrade, + Your mission is fulfill'd—but I, more warlike, + Myself and this contentious soul of mine, + Still on our own campaigning bound, + Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined, + Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis, often baffled, + Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out—aye here, + To fiercer, weightier battles give expression. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TURN O LIBERTAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Turn O Libertad, for the war is over, + From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, + sweeping the world, + Turn from lands retrospective recording proofs of the past, + From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past, + From the chants of the feudal world, the triumphs of kings, slavery, + caste, + Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come—give up that + backward world, + Leave to the singers of hitherto, give them the trailing past, + But what remains remains for singers for you—wars to come are for + you, + (Lo, how the wars of the past have duly inured to you, and the wars + of the present also inure;) + Then turn, and be not alarm'd O Libertad—turn your undying face, + To where the future, greater than all the past, + Is swiftly, surely preparing for you. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the leaven'd soil they trod calling I sing for the last, + (Forth from my tent emerging for good, loosing, untying the + tent-ropes,) + In the freshness the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and + vistas again to peace restored, + To the fiery fields emanative and the endless vistas beyond, to the + South and the North, + To the leaven'd soil of the general Western world to attest my songs, + To the Alleghanian hills and the tireless Mississippi, + To the rocks I calling sing, and all the trees in the woods, + To the plains of the poems of heroes, to the prairies spreading wide, + To the far-off sea and the unseen winds, and the sane impalpable air; + And responding they answer all, (but not in words,) + The average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely, + The prairie draws me close, as the father to bosom broad the son, + The Northern ice and rain that began me nourish me to the end, + But the hot sun of the South is to fully ripen my songs. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Drum Taps, by Walt Whitman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUM TAPS *** + +***** This file should be named 8801-h.htm or 8801-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/0/8801/ + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreading + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Drum Taps + +Author: Walt Whitman + + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8801] +This file was first posted on August 10, 2003 +Last updated: May 2, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUM TAPS *** + + + + +Produced by Distributed Proofreading + + + + + + + + +DRUM-TAPS + +By Walt Whitman + + + +CONTENTS + + + INTRODUCTION + + FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE + + EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE + + BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! + + FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD + + SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK + + RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS + + VIRGINIA--THE WEST + + CITY OF SHIPS + + THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY + + CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD + + BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE + + AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH + + BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME + + COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER + + VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT + + A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND THE ROAD UNKNOWN + + A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM + + AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS + + NOT THE PILOT + + YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME + + THE WOUND-DRESSER + + LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA + + GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN + + DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS + + OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE + + I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY + + THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION + + ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS + + NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME + + RACE OF VETERANS + + WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE + + O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY + + LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON + + RECONCILIATION + + HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE + + AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO + + DELICATE CLUSTER + + TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN + + LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS + + SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE + + ADIEU TO A SOLDIER + + TURN O LIBERTAD + + TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD + + + +NOTE + + +The Introduction is reprinted, by permission, from _The Times_ Literary +Supplement of April 1, 1915. + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +When the first days of August loured over the world, time seemed to +stand still. A universal astonishment and confusion fell, as upon a flock +of sheep perplexed by strange dogs. But now, though never before was a +St. Lucy's Day so black with "absence, darkness, death," Christmas is +gone. Spring comes swiftly, the almond trees flourish. Easter will soon +be here. Life breaks into beauty again and we realize that man may bring +hell itself into the world, but that Nature ever patiently waits to be +his natural paradise. Yet still a kind of instinctive blindness blots out +the prospect of the future. Until the long horror of the war is gone from +our minds, we shall be able to think of nothing that has not for its +background a chaotic darkness. Like every obsession, it gnaws at thought, +follows us into our dreams and returns with the morning. But there have +been other wars. And humanity, after learning as best it may their brutal +lesson, has survived them. Just as the young soldier leaves home behind +him and accepts hardship and danger as to the manner born, so, when he +returns again, life will resume its old quiet wont. Nature is not idle +even in the imagination. It is man's salvation to forget no less than it +is his salvation to remember. And it is wise even in the midst of the +conflict to look back on those that are past and to prepare for the +returning problems of the future. + +When Whitman wrote his "Democratic Vistas," the long embittered war +between the Northern and Southern States of America was a thing only of +yesterday. It is a headlong amorphous production--a tangled meadow of +"leaves of grass" in prose. But it is as cogent to-day as it was when it +was written: + + To the ostent of the senses and eyes [he writes], the influences + which stamp the world's history are wars, uprisings, or downfalls + of dynasties.... These, of course, play their part; yet, it may + be, a single new thought, imagination, abstract principle ... put + in shape by some great literatus, and projected among mankind, + may duly cause changes, growths, removals, greater than the + longest and bloodiest war, or the most stupendous merely + political, dynastic, or commercial overturn. + +The literatus who realized this had his own message in mind. And yet, +justly. For those who might point to the worldly prosperity and material +comforts of his country, and ask, Are not these better indeed than any +utterances even of greatest rhapsodic, artist, or literatus? he has his +irrefutable answer. He surveys the New York of 1870, "its facades of +marble and iron, of original grandeur and elegance of design," etc., in +his familiar catalogical jargon, and shutting his eyes to its glow and +grandeur, inquires in return, Are there indeed _men_ here worthy the +name? Are there perfect women? Is there a pervading atmosphere of +beautiful manners? Are there arts worthy freedom and a rich people? Is +there a great moral and religious civilization--the only justification of +a great material one? We ourselves in good time shall have to face and to +answer these questions. They search our keenest hopes of the peace that +is coming. And we may be fortified perhaps by the following queer proof +of history repeating itself: + + Never, in the Old World, was thoroughly upholster'd exterior + appearance and show, mental and other, built entirely on the idea + of caste, and on the sufficiency of mere outside + acquisition--never were glibness, verbal intellect, more the + test, the emulation--more loftily elevated as head and sample-- + than they are on the surface of our Republican States this day. + The writers of a time hint the mottoes of its gods. The word of + the modern, say these voices, is the word Culture. + +Whitman had no very tender regard for the Germany of his time. He fancied +that the Germans were like the Chinese, only less graceful and refined +and more brutish. But neither had he any particular affection for any +relic of Europe. "Never again will we trust the moral sense or abstract +friendliness of a single _Government_ of the Old World." He accepted +selections from its literature for the new American Adam. But even its +greatest poets were not America's, and though he might welcome even +Juvenal, it was for use and not for worship. We have to learn, he +insists, that the best culture will always be that of the manly and +courageous instincts and loving perceptions, and of self-respect. In our +children rests every hope and promise, and therefore in their mothers. +"Disengage yourselves from parties.... These savage and wolfish parties +alarm me.... Hold yourself judge and master over all of them." Only faith +can save us, the faith in ourselves and in our fellow-men which is of the +true faith in goodness and in God. The idea of the mass of men, so fresh +and free, so loving and so proud, filled this poet with a singular awe. +Passionately he pleads for the dignity of the common people. It is the +average man of a land that is important. To win the people back to a +proud belief and confidence in life, to rapture in this wonderful world, +to love and admiration--this was his burning desire. I demand races of +orbic bards, he rhapsodizes, sweet democratic despots, to dominate and +even destroy. The Future! Vistas! The throes of birth are upon us. +Allons, camarado! + +He could not despair. "Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of +the baffled?" he asks himself in "Drum-Taps." But wildest shuttlecock of +criticism though he is, he has never yet been charged with looking only +on the dark side of things. Once, he says, "Once, before the war (alas! I +dare not say how many times the mood has come!), I too, was fill'd with +doubt and gloom." His part in it soothed, mellowed, deepened his great +nature. He had himself witnessed such misery, cruelty, and abomination as +it is best just now, perhaps, not to read about. One fact alone is +enough; that over fifty thousand Federal soldiers perished of starvation +in Southern prisons. Malarial fever contracted in camps and hospitals had +wrecked his health. During 1862-65 he visited, he says, eighty to a +hundred thousand sick and wounded soldiers, comprehending all, slighting +none. Rebel or compatriot, it made no difference. "I loved the young +man," he cries again and again. Pity and fatherliness were in his face, +for his heart was full of them. Mr. Gosse has described "the old Gray" as +he saw him in 1884, in his bare, littered sun-drenched room in Camden, +shared by kitten and canary: + + He sat with a very curious pose of the head thrown backward, as + if resting it one vertebra lower down the spinal column than + other people do, and thus tilting his face a little upwards. With + his head so poised and the whole man fixed in contemplation of + the interlocutor he seemed to pass into a state of absolute + passivity ... the glassy eyes half closed, the large knotted + hands spread out before him. He resembled, in fact, nothing so + much as "a great old grey Angora Tom," alert in repose, serenely + blinking under his combed waves of hair, with eyes inscrutably + dreaming.... As I stood in dull, deserted Mickle Street once + more, my heart was full of affection for this beautiful old man + ... this old rhapsodist in his empty room, glorified by patience + and philosophy. + +Whitman was then sixty-five. In a portrait of thirty years before there +is just a wraith of that feline dream, perhaps, but it is a face of a +rare grace and beauty that looks out at us, of a profound kindness and +compassion. And, in the eyes, not so much penetration as visionary +absorption. Such was the man to whom nothing was unclean, nothing too +trivial (except "pale poetlings lisping cadenzas _piano_," who then +apparently thronged New York) to take to himself. Intensest, +indomitablest of individualists, he exulted in all that appertains to +that forked radish, Man. This contentious soul of mine, he exclaims +ecstatically; Viva: the attack! I have been born the same as the war was +born; I lull nobody, and you will never understand me: maybe I am +non-literary and un-decorous.... I have written impromptu, and shall let +it all go at that. Let me at least be human! Human, indeed, he was, a +tender, all-welcoming host of Everyman, of his idolized (if somewhat +overpowering) American democracy. Man in the street, in his swarms, poor +crazed faces in the State asylum, prisoners in Sing Sing, prostitute, +whose dead body reminded him not of a lost soul, but only of a sad, +forlorn, and empty house--it mattered not; he opened his heart to them, +one and all. "I see beyond each mark that wonder, a kindred soul. O the +bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend." + + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. + +"Yours for you," he exclaims, welding in a phrase his unparalleled +egotism, his beautiful charity, "yours for you, who ever you are, as mine +for me." It is the essence of philosophy and of religion, for all the +wonders of heaven and earth are significant "only because of the Me in +the centre." + +This was the secret of his tender, unassuming ministrations. He had none +of that shrinking timidity, that fear of intrusion, that uneasiness in +the presence of the tragic and the pitiful, which so often numb and +oppress those who would willingly give themselves and their best to the +needy and suffering, but whose intellect misgives them. He was that +formidable phenomenon, a dreamer of action. But he possessed a sovran +good sense. Food and rest and clean clothes were his scrupulous +preparation for his visits. He always assumed as cheerful an appearance +as possible. Armed with bright new five-cent and ten-cent bills (the +wounded, he found, were often "broke," and the sight of a little money +"helped their spirits"), with books and stationery and tobacco, for one a +twist of good strong green tea, for another a good home-made +rice-pudding, or a jar of sparkling but innocent blackberry and cherry +syrup, a small bottle of horse-radish pickle, or a large handsome apple, +he would "make friends." "What I have I also give you," he cried from the +bottom of his grieved, tempestuous heart. He would talk, or write +letters--passionate love-letters, too--or sit silent, in mute and tender +kindness. "Long, long, I gazed ... leaning my chin in my hands, passing +sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours, with you, dearest comrade--not a +tear, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son +and my soldier." And how many a mother must have blessed the stranger who +could bring such last news of a son as this: "And now like many other +noble and good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has +yielded up his young life at the very outset in her service. Such things +are gloomy--yet there is a text, 'God doeth all things well'--the meaning +of which, after due time, appears to the soul." It is only love that can +comfort the loving. + +He forced nothing on these friends of a day, so many of them near their +last farewell. A poor wasted young man asks him to read a chapter in the +New Testament, and Whitman chooses that which describes Christ's +Crucifixion. He "ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ +rose again. I read very slowly, for he was feeble. It pleased him very +much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion. +I said 'Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, yet maybe, it is the +same thing.'" This is only one of many such serene intimacies in +Whitman's experiences of the war. Through them we reach to an +understanding of a poet who chose not signal and beautiful episodes out +of the past, nor the rare moments of existence, for theme, but took all +life, within and around him in vast bustling America, for his poetic +province. Like a benign barbaric sun he surveys the world, ever at noon. +I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there, he cries in the "Song of Myself." +I do not despise you priests, all times, the world over.... He could not +despise anything, not even his fellow-poets, because he himself was +everything. His verse sometimes seems mere verbiage, but it is always a +higgledy-piggledy, Santa Claus bagful of _things_. And he could penetrate +to the essential reality. He tells in his "Drum-Taps" how one daybreak he +arose in camp, and saw three still forms stretched out in the eastern +radiance, how with light fingers he just lifted the blanket from each +cold face in turn: the first elderly, gaunt, and grim--Who are you, my +dear comrade? The next with cheeks yet blooming--Who are you, sweet boy? +The third--Young man, I think I know you. I think this face is the face +of the Christ Himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again +he lies. + +True poetry focuses experience, not merely transmits it. It must redeem +it for ever from transitoriness and evanescence. Whitman incontinently +pours experience out in a Niagara-like cataract. But in spite of his +habitual publicity he was at heart of a "shy, brooding, impassioned +devotional type"; in spite of his self-conscious, arrogant virility, he +was to the end of his life an entranced child. He came into the world, +saw and babbled. His deliberate method of writing could have had no other +issue. A subject would occur to him, a kind of tag. He would scribble it +down on a scrap of paper and drop it into a drawer. Day by day this first +impulse would evoke fresh "poemets," until at length the accumulation was +exhaustive. Then he merely gutted his treasury and the ode was complete. +It was only when sense and feeling attained a sort of ecstasy that he +succeeded in distilling the true essence that is poetry and in enstopping +it in a crystal phial of form. + +The prose of his "Specimen Days," indeed, is often nearer to poetry than +his verse: + + Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.... I often come and + sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as + softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so + handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time + as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without + the least start awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady + look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier--one long, + clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd back and went into + his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the + heart of the stranger that hover'd near. + + The western star, Venus, in the earlier hours of evening has + never been so large, so clear; it seems as if it told something, + as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity, with us Americans. + The sky dark blue, the transparent night, the planets, the + moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of that + great star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west, + suffused the soul. Then I heard slow and clear the deliberate + notes of a bugle come up out of the silence ... firm and + faithful, floating along, rising, falling leisurely, with here + and there a long-drawn note.... sounding tattoo. + +"A steady rain, dark and thick and warm," he writes again, two days after +Gettysburg. "The cavalry camp is a ceaseless field of observation to me. +This forenoon there stood the horses, tether'd together, dripping, +steaming, chewing their hay. The men emerge from their tents, dripping +also. The fires are half-quench'd." There is a poetic poise in this +brief, vivid statement, apart from its bare economy of means. It is the +lump awaiting the leaven no less than is "Cavalry Crossing a Ford." To +this supreme spectator an apple orchard in May, even the White House in +moonlight, no more and no less than these battle-scenes, rendered up +their dignity, life, and beauty, their true human significance. But in +"Drum-Taps" the witness is not always so satisfactory. The secret has +evaporated in the effort to _make_ poetry, or half-consciously to inject +a moral, to play the Universal Bard. There creeps into the words a tinge +of the raw and the grotesque. The poet has the look of a cowboy off the +stage, tanned with grease-paint. But again and again the secret creeps +back and some lovely emanation of poetry is added to it: + + Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, + Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, + purple, + On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide, + Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. + +Or this, called "Reconciliation": + + Word over all, beautiful as the sky, + Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be + utterly lost, + That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash + again, and ever again, this soil'd world; + For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, + I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--I draw + near, + Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the + coffin. + +The bonds of rhyme shackled him, deprived him of more than freedom. He is +like a wild bird that suddenly perceives the bars of its small cage +across the blue of the sky. And yet the finer his poems are, the nearer +they approach to definite rhythmical design. One has only to compare "O +Captain! my Captain!" with "Hushed be the Camps To-day" to perceive this +curious paradox. They are both of them memories of his beloved Lincoln, +whom he had many times seen, with that peculiarly close and transatlantic +curiosity of his, riding at a jog-trot, on a good-sized, easy-going grey +horse, with his escort of yellow-striped cavalry behind him, through the +streets of Washington--dressed in black, somewhat rusty and dusty, with a +black, stiff hat, almost as ordinary in attire as the commonest man. That +heroic face, too, he had pierced; and caught from it the deep, subtle, +indirect expression, that only the long-gone master-painters of the Old +World could have seized and immortalized. And in yet another memory of +this great American Whitman attains to his best and highest, "When Lilacs +Last in the Doorway Bloom'd." It is one of the most beautiful of poems, +of the purest intuition, of a consummate, if unconscious, artistry. Whose +voice is it that rings and echoes, now low and tender, now solemn and +desolate, now clear, full, victorious, out of its cloistral +solitude--that of the mourner himself, of all-heedfull, heedless Nature, +of the immortal soul of man, or just a bird, the shy and hidden, sweet, +small hermit thrush? The last division of his life's work--his fond Epic, +his cosmic "inventory"--as Whitman planned it, was to be devoted to the +chaunting of songs of death and immortality. The soldier to whom he read +of Christ's Resurrection talked of death to him, and said he did not fear +it. He talked to a man who did not enjoy religion in the way a Christian +means, to whom the mystery of Easter is an all-sufficing "reliance." But +Whitman not only did not fear death. The thought of it was to him the +strangest of raptures, the reverie of a child dreaming of a distant +mother, soon to come again. Death and immortality were but two aspects of +the same blessed hope to this man, who poured out his life in a turgid +fount of ecstatic joy in living: + + ... And I saw askant the armies, + I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, + Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I + saw them, + And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, + And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence), + And the staffs all splintered and broken. + + I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, + And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, + I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, + But I saw they were not as was thought, + They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, + The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, + And the wives and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd, + And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.... + + _Come lovely and soothing death, + Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, + In the night, in the day, to all, to each, + Sooner or later delicate death._ + + _Prais'd be the fathomless universe, + For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, + And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! + For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death._ + + _Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet + Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? + Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, + I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come + unfalteringly._ + + + + + +DRUM-TAPS + + + + +FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE. + + + First O songs for a prelude, + Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city, + How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue, + How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang, + (O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! + O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than + steel!) + How you sprang--how you threw off the costumes of peace with + indifferent hand, + How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard + in their stead, + How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of + soldiers,) + How Manhattan drum-taps led. + + Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading, + Forty years as a pageant, still unawares the lady of this teeming and + turbulent city, + Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, + With her million children around her, suddenly, + At dead of night, at news from the south, + Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement. + + A shock electric, the night sustain'd it, + Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads. + From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the doorways, + Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming. + + To the drum-taps prompt, + The young men falling in and arming, + The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's + hammer, tost aside with precipitation,) + The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the + court, + The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing + the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, + The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all + leaving; + Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm, + The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their + accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully, + Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musketbarrels, + The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the + sunrise cannon and again at sunset, + Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark + from the wharves, + (How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with + their guns on their shoulders! + How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces and + their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!) + The blood of the city up--arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere, + The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the + public buildings and stores, + The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his + mother, + (Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain + him,) + The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the + way, + The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their + favorites, + The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along, rumble + lightly over the stones, + (Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence, + Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business;) + All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming, + The hospital service, the lint, bandages and medicines, + The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest, no + mere parade now; + War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no turning + away; + War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing to + welcome it. + + Mannahatta a-march--and it's O to sing it well! + It's O for a manly life in the camp. + + And the sturdy artillery, + The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns, + Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for + courtesies merely, + Put in something now besides powder and wadding.) + + And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta, + Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city, + Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown'd amid + all your children, + But now you smile with joy exulting old Mannahatta. + + + + +EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE. + + + Arm'd year--year of the struggle, + No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you terrible year, + Not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenzas + piano, + But as a strong man erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing, + carrying a rifle on your shoulder, + With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands, with a knife in + the belt at your side, + As I heard you shouting loud, your sonorous voice ringing across the + continent, + Your masculine voice O year, as rising amid the great cities, + Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you as one of the workmen, the + dwellers in Manhattan, + Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and + Indiana, + Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait and descending the + Alleghanies, + Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along the + Ohio river, + Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at + Chattanooga on the mountain top, + Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs clothed in blue, bearing + weapons, robust year, + Heard your determin'd voice launch'd forth again and again, + Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp'd cannon, + I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year. + + + + +BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! + + + Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! + Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force, + Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, + Into the school where the scholar is studying; + Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with + his bride, + Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering + his grain, + So fierce you whirr and pound you drums--so shrill you bugles blow. + + Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! + Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets; + Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers + must sleep in those beds, + No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--would they + continue? + Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? + Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the + judge? + Then rattle quicker, heavier drums--you bugles wilder blow. + + Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow! + Make no parley--stop for no expostulation, + Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer, + Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, + Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, + Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the + hearses, + So strong you thump O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow. + + + + +FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD + + + From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird, + Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all, + To the north betaking myself to sing there arctic songs, + To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself, to Michigan then, + To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are + inimitable;) + Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs, to Missouri and Kansas and + Arkansas to sing theirs, + To Tennessee and Kentucky, to the Carolinas and Georgia to sing + theirs, + To Texas and so along up toward California, to roam accepted + everywhere; + To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum if need be,) + The idea of all, of the Western world one and inseparable, + And then the song of each member of these States. + + + + +SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK. + + + _Poet._ + O a new song, a free song, + Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer, + By the wind's voice and that of the drum, + By the banner's voice and child's voice and sea's voice and father's + voice, + Low on the ground and high in the air, + On the ground where father and child stand, + In the upward air where their eyes turn, + Where the banner at daybreak is flapping. + + Words! bookwords! what are you? + Words no more, for hearken and see, + My song is there in the open air, and I must sing, + With the banner and pennant a-flapping. + + I'll weave the chord and twine in, + Man's desire and babe's desire, I'll twine them in, I'll put in life, + I'll put the bayonet's flashing point, I'll let bullets and slugs + whizz, + (As one carrying a symbol and menace far into the future, + Crying with trumpet voice, _Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!_) + I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of + joy. + Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete, + With the banner and pennant a-flapping. + + _Pennant._ + Come up here, bard, bard, + Come up here, soul, soul, + Come up here, dear little child, + To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless + light. + + _Child._ + Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger? + And what does it say to me all the while? + + _Father._ + Nothing my babe you see in the sky, + And nothing at all to you it says--but look you my babe, + Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the + money-shops opening, + And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with + goods; + These, ah these, how valued and toil'd for these! + How envied by all the earth. + + _Poet._ + Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high, + On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels, + On floats the wind over the breast of the sea setting in toward land, + The great steady wind from west or west-by-south, + Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters. + + But I am not the sea nor the red sun, + I am not the wind with girlish laughter, + Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which lashes, + Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death, + But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings, + Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land, + Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings, + And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner and + pennant, + Aloft there flapping and flapping. + + _Child._ + O father it is alive--it is full of people--it has children, + O now it seems to me it is talking to its children, + I hear it--it talks to me--O it is wonderful! + O it stretches--it spreads and runs so fast--O my father, + It is so broad it covers the whole sky. + + _Father._ + Cease, cease, my foolish babe, + What you are saying is sorrowful to me, much it displeases me; + Behold with the rest again I say, behold not banners and pennants + aloft, + But the well-prepared pavements behold, and mark the solid-wall'd + houses. + + _Banner and Pennant._ + Speak to the child O bard out of Manhattan, + To our children all, or north or south of Manhattan, + Point this day, leaving all the rest, to us over all--and yet we know + not why, + For what are we, mere strips of cloth profiting nothing, + Only flapping in the wind? + + _Poet._ + I hear and see not strips of cloth alone, + I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry, + I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men, I hear Liberty! + I hear the drums beat and the trumpets blowing, + I myself move abroad swift-rising flying then, + I use the wings of the land-bird and use the wings of the sea-bird, + and look down as from a height, + I do not deny the precious results of peace, I see populous cities + with wealth incalculable, + I see numberless farms, I see the farmers working in their fields or + barns, + I see mechanics working, I see buildings everywhere founded, going + up, or finished, + I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn by + the locomotives, + I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New + Orleans, + I see far in the West the immense area of grain, I dwell awhile + hovering, + I pass to the lumber forests of the North, and again to the Southern + plantation, and again to California; + Sweeping the whole I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, + earn'd wages, + See the Identity formed out of thirty-eight spacious and haughty + States, (and many more to come,) + See forts on the shores of harbors, see ships sailing in and out; + Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen'd pennant shaped + like a sword, + Runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance--and now the halyards + have rais'd it, + Side of my banner broad and blue, side of my starry banner, + Discarding peace over all the sea and land. + + _Banner and Pennant._ + Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave! + No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone, + We may be terror and carnage, and are so now, + Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any + five, nor ten,) + Nor market nor depot we, nor money-bank in the city, + But these and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines + below, are ours, + And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small, + And the fields they moisten, and the crops and the fruits are ours, + Bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours--while we + over all, + Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square + miles, the capitals, + The forty millions of people,--O bard! in life and death supreme, + We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above, + Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you, + This song to the soul of one poor little child. + + _Child._ + O my father I like not the houses, + They will never to me be any thing, nor do I like money, + But to mount up there I would like, O father dear, that banner I + like, + That pennant I would be and must be. + + _Father._ + Child of mine you fill me with anguish, + To be that pennant would be too fearful, + Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever, + It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy every thing, + Forward to stand in front of wars--and O, such wars!--what have you + to do with them? + With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death? + + _Banner._ + Demons and death then I sing, + Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war, + And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of + children, + Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the + sea, + And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke, + And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and + pines, + And the whirr of drums and the sound of soldiers marching, and the + hot sun shining south, + And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my Eastern shore, and + my Western shore the same, + And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi with + bends and chutes, + And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of + Missouri, + The Continent, devoting the whole identity without reserving an atom, + Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all and the yield + of all, + Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole, + No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound, + But out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more, + Croaking like crows here in the wind. + + _Poet_. + My limbs, my veins dilate, my theme is clear at last, + Banner so broad advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and + resolute, + I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd and blinded, + My hearing and tongue are come to me, (a little child taught me,) + I hear from above O pennant of war your ironical call and demand, + Insensate! insensate! (yet I at any rate chant you,) O banner! + Not houses of peace indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity, + (if need be, you shall again have every one of those houses + to destroy them, + You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full + of comfort, built with money, + May they stand fast, then? not an hour except you above them and all + stand fast;) + O banner, not money so precious are you, not farm produce you, nor + the material good nutriment, + Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships, + Not the superb ships with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and + carrying cargoes, + Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues--but you as henceforth I + see you, + Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, + (ever-enlarging stars,) + Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touch'd by the sun, + measuring the sky, + (Passionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little child, + While others remain busy or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, + thrift;) + O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake hissing so + curious, + Out of reach, an idea only, yet furiously fought for, risking bloody + death, loved by me, + So loved--O you banner leading the day with stars brought from the + night! + Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all--(absolute + owner of all)--O banner and pennant! + I too leave the rest--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, machines + are nothing--I see them not, + I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I + sing you only, + Flapping up there in the wind. + + + + +RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS. + + +1 + + Rise O days from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer + sweep, + Long for my soul hungering gymnastic I devour'd what the earth gave + me, + Long I roam'd the woods of the north, long I watch'd Niagara pouring, + I travel'd the prairies over and slept on their breast, I cross'd the + Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus, + I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd out to sea, + I sail'd through the storm, I was refresh'd by the storm, + I watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves, + I mark'd the white combs where they career'd so high, curling over, + I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds, + Saw from below what arose and mounted (O superb! O wild as my heart, + and powerful!) + Heard the continuous thunder as it bellow'd after the lightning, + Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning as sudden and fast + amid the din they chased each other across the sky; + These, and such as these, I, elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet pensive + and masterful, + All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me, + Yet there with my soul I fed, I fed content, supercilious. + +2 + + 'Twas well, O soul--'twas a good preparation you gave me, + Now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill, + Now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea never gave us, + Not through the mighty woods we go, but through the mightier cities, + Something for us is pouring now more than Niagara pouring, + Torrents of men, (sources and rills of the Northwest are you indeed + inexhaustible?) + What, to pavements and homesteads here, what were those storms of the + mountains and sea? + What, to passions I witness around me to-day? was the sea risen? + Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds? + Lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more deadly and savage, + Manhattan rising, advancing with menacing front--Cincinnati, Chicago, + unchain'd; + What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold what comes here, + How it climbs with daring feet and hands--how it dashes! + How the true thunder bellows after the lightning--how bright the + flashes of lightning! + How Democracy with desperate vengeful port strides on, shown through + the dark by those flashes of lightning! + (Yet a mournful wail and low sob I fancied I heard through the dark, + In a lull of the deafening confusion.) + +3 + + Thunder on! stride on, Democracy! strike with vengeful stroke! + And do you rise higher than ever yet O days, O cities! + Crash heavier, heavier yet O storms! you have done me good, + My soul prepared in the mountains absorbs your immortal strong + nutriment, + Long had I walk'd my cities, my country roads through farms, only + half satisfied, + One doubt nauseous undulating like a snake, crawl'd on the ground + before me, + Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically + hissing low; + The cities I loved so well I abandon'd and left, I sped to the + certainties suitable to me, + Hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies and Nature's + dauntlessness, + I refresh'd myself with it only, I could relish it only, + I waited the bursting forth of the pent fire--on the water and air I + waited long; + But now I no longer wait, I am fully satisfied, I am glutted, + I have witness'd the true lightning, I have witness'd my cities + electric, + I have lived to behold man burst forth and warlike America rise, + Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds, + No more the mountains roam or sail the stormy sea. + + + + +VIRGINIA--THE WEST. + + + The noble sire fallen on evil days, + I saw with hand uplifted, menacing, brandishing, + (Memories of old in abeyance, love and faith in abeyance,) + The insane knife toward the Mother of All. + + The noble son on sinewy feet advancing, + I saw, out of the land of prairies, land of Ohio's waters and of + Indiana, + To the rescue the stalwart giant hurry his plenteous offspring, + Drest in blue, bearing their trusty rifles on their shoulders. + + Then the Mother of All with calm voice speaking, + As to you Rebellious, (I seemed to hear her say,) why strive against + me, and why seek my life? + When you yourself forever provide to defend me? + For you provided me Washington--and now these also. + + + + +CITY OF SHIPS. + + + City of ships! + (O the black ships! O the fierce ships! + O the beautiful sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!) + City of the world! (for all races are here, + All the lands of the earth make contributions here;) + City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides! + City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and + out with eddies and foam! + City of wharves and stores--city of tall facades of marble and iron! + Proud and passionate city--mettlesome, mad, extravagant city! + Spring up, O city--not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, + warlike! + Fear not--submit to no models but your own O city! + Behold me--incarnate me as I have incarnated you! + I have rejected nothing you offer'd me--whom you adopted I have + adopted, + Good or bad I never question you--I love all--I do not condemn any + thing, + I chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more, + In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine, + War, red war is my song through your streets, O city! + + + + +THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY. + + + _Volunteer of 1861-2, (at Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the + Centenarian.)_ + + Give me your hand old Revolutionary, + The hill-top is nigh, but a few steps, (make room gentlemen,) + Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite of your hundred and + extra years, + You can walk old man, though your eyes are almost done, + Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me. + Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means, + On the plain below recruits are drilling and exercising, + There is the camp, one regiment departs to-morrow, + Do you hear the officers giving their orders? + Do you hear the clank of the muskets? + + Why what comes over you now old man? + Why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively? + The troops are but drilling, they are yet surrounded with smiles. + Around them at hand the well-drest friends and the women, + While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down, + Green the midsummer verdure and fresh blows the dallying breeze, + O'er proud and peaceful cities and arm of the sea between. + But drill and parade are over, they march back to quarters, + Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! + + As wending the crowds now part and disperse--but we old man, + Not for nothing have I brought you hither--we must remain, + You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. + + _The Centenarian._ + + When I clutch'd your hand it was not with terror, + But suddenly pouring about me here on every side, + And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they + ran, + And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see south and + south-east and south-west, + Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, + And along the shores, in mire (now fill'd over) came again and + suddenly raged, + As eighty-five years a-gone no mere parade receiv'd with applause of + friends, + But a battle which I took part in myself--aye, long ago as it is I + took part in it, + Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. + + Aye, this is the ground, + My blind eyes even as I speak behold it re-peopled from graves, + The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear, + Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are mounted, + I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to bay, + I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes; + Here we lay encamp'd, it was this time in summer also. + + As I talk I remember all, I remember the Declaration, + It was read here, the whole army paraded, it was read to us here, + By his staff surrounded the General stood in the middle, he held up + his unsheath'd sword, + It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army. + + 'Twas a bold act then--the English war-ships had just arrived, + We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, + And the transports swarming with soldiers. + + A few days more and they landed, and then the battle. + + Twenty thousand were brought against us, + A veteran force furnish'd with good artillery. + I tell not now the whole of the battle, + But one brigade early in the forenoon order'd forward to engage the + red-coats, + Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd, + And how long and well it stood confronting death. + + Who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting + death? + It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, + Raised in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known personally to + the General. + + Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus' waters, + Till of a sudden unlook'd for by defiles through the woods, gain'd at + night, + The British advancing, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing + their guns, + That brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy's mercy. + + The General watch'd them from this hill, + They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment, + They drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the + middle, + But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! + + It sickens me yet, that slaughter! + I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General. + I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. + + Meanwhile the British manoeuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle, + But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle. + + We fought the fight in detachments. + Sallying forth we fought at several points, but in each the luck was + against us, + Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back to + the works on this hill, + Till we turn'd menacing here, and then he left us. + + That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two + thousand strong, + Few return'd, nearly all remain in Brooklyn. + That and here my General's first battle, + No women looking on nor sunshine to bask in, it did not conclude with + applause, + Nobody clapp'd hands here then. + + But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain, + Wearied that night we lay foil'd and sullen, + While scornfully laugh'd many an arrogant lord oft' against us + encamp'd, + Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over + their victory. + + So dull and damp and another day, + But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, + Silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him, my + General retreated. + + I saw him at the river-side, + Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; + My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass'd over, + And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the + last time. + + Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom, + Many no doubt thought of capitulation. + + But when my General pass'd me, + As he stood in his boat and look'd toward the coming sun, + I saw something different from capitulation. + + _Terminus._ + + Enough, the Centenarian's story ends, + The two, the past and present, have interchanged, + I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now + speaking. + + And is this the ground Washington trod? + And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he + cross'd, + As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs? + + I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward, + I must preserve that look as it beam'd on you rivers of Brooklyn. + + See--as the annual round returns the phantoms return, + It is the 27th of August and the British have landed, + The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke + Washington's face, + The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to intercept + the enemy, + They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them, + Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, + Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody wounds, + In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears. + + Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable + than your owners supposed; + In the midst of you stands an encampment very old, + Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade. + + + + +CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD. + + + A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, + They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun--hark to + the musical clank, + Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop + to drink, + Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the + negligent rest on the saddles, + Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the + ford--while + Scarlet and blue and snowy white, + The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. + + + + +BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE. + + + I see before me now a traveling army halting, + Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer, + Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising + high, + Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily + seen, + The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the + mountain, + The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, + flickering, + And over all the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, + breaking out, the eternal stars. + + + + +AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH. + + + With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, + With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an + irregular volley, + The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, + Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun--the dust-cover'd men, + In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, + With artillery interspers'd--the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, + As the army corps advances. + + + + +BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME. + + + By the bivouac's fitful flame, + A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow--but first + I note, + The tents of the sleeping army, the fields' and woods' dim out-line, + The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence, + Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving, + The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily + watching me,) + While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts, + Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that + are far away; + A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground, + By the bivouac's fitful flame. + + + + +COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER. + + + Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, + And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son. + + Lo, 'tis autumn, + Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, + Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the + moderate wind, + Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd + vines, + (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? + Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) + Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and + with wondrous clouds, + Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers + well. + + Down in the fields all prospers well, + But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's call, + And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. + + Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, + She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap. + + Open the envelope quickly, + O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, + O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul! + All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main + words only, + Sentences broken, _gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, + taken to hospital, + At present low, but will soon be better._ + + Ah now the single figure to me, + Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, + Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, + By the jamb of a door leans. + + _Grieve not so, dear mother_, (the just-grown daughter speaks through + her sobs, + The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd,) + _See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better._ + + Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be + better, that brave and simple soul,) + While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, + The only son is dead. + + But the mother needs to be better, + She with thin form presently drest in black, + By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often + waking, + In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, + O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and + withdraw, + To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son. + + + + +VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT. + + + Vigil strange I kept on the field one night; + When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day, + One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall + never forget, + One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the + ground, + Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle, + Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my + way, + Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of + responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,) + Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the + moderate night-wind, + Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the + battle-field spreading, + Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night, + But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, + Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my + chin in my hands, + Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest + comrade--not a tear, not a word, + Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my + soldier, + As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole, + Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your + death, + I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall + surely meet again,) + Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn + appear'd, + My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form, + Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully + under feet, + And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, + in his rude-dug grave I deposited, + Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field + dim, + Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth + responding,) + Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day + brighten'd, + I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his + blanket, + And buried him where he fell. + + + + +A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND THE ROAD UNKNOWN. + + + A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown, + A route through a heavy wood with muffled steps in the darkness, + Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating, + Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted + building, + We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted + building, + 'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads, now an impromptu + hospital, + Entering but for a minute I see a sight beyond all the pictures and + poems ever made, + Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and + lamps, + And by one great pitchy torch stationary with wild red flame and + clouds of smoke, + By these, crowds, groups of forms vaguely I see on the floor, some in + the pews laid down, + At my feet more distinctly a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of + bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen,) + I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster's face is white as a + lily,) + Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene fain to absorb it + all, + Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, + some of them dead, + Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, + the odor of blood, + The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside also + fill'd, + Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the + death-spasm sweating, + An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls, + The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the + torches, + These I resume as I chant, I see again the forms, I smell the odor, + Then hear outside the orders given, _Fall in, my men, fall in_; + But first I bend to the dying lad, his eyes open, a half-smile gives + he me, + Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness, + Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks, + The unknown road still marching. + + + + +A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM. + + + A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, + As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless, + As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital + tent, + Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended + lying, + Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket, + Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. + + Curious I halt and silent stand, + Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just + lift the blanket; + Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and + flesh all sunken about the eyes? + Who are you my dear comrade? + + Then to the second I step-and who are you my child and darling? + Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? + + Then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of + beautiful yellow-white ivory; + Young man I think I know you--I think this face is the face of the + Christ himself, + Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies. + + + + +AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS. + + + As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, + To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas autumn,) + I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; + Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all could I + understand,) + The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to lose-yet this sign + left, + On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, + _Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade._ + + Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, + Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life, + Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in + the crowded street, + Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the inscription + rude in Virginia's woods, + _Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade._ + + + + +NOT THE PILOT. + + + Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, + though beaten back and many times baffled; + Not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long, + By deserts parch'd, snows chill'd, rivers wet, perseveres till he + reaches his destination, + More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a + march for these States, + For a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries + hence. + + + + +YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME. + + + Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me! + Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me, + A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me, + Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself, + Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled? + And sullen hymns of defeat? + + + + +THE WOUND-DRESSER. + + +1 + + An old man bending I come among new faces, + Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, + Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, + (Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge + relentless war, + But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself, + To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;) + Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these + chances, + Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally + brave;) + Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, + Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us? + What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, + Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains? + +2 + + O maidens and young men I love and that love me, + What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking + recalls, + Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and + dust, + In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the + rush of successful charge, + Enter the captur'd works--yet lo, like a swift-running river they + fade, + Pass and are gone they fade--I dwell not on soldiers' perils or + soldiers' joys, + (Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was + content.) + + But in silence, in dreams' projections, + While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, + So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the + sand, + With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up + there, + Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.) + + Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, + Straight and swift to my wounded I go, + Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, + Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground, + Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital, + To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, + To each and all one after another I drawn near, not one do I miss, + An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, + Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd + again. + + I onward go, I stop, + With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, + I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, + One turns to me his appealing eyes-poor boy! I never knew you, + Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that + would save you. + +3 + + On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) + The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage + away,) + The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I + examine, + Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life + struggles hard, + (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death! + In mercy come quickly.) + + From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, + I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and + blood, + Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and + side-falling head, + His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the + bloody stump, + And has not yet look'd on it. + + I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, + But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, + And the yellow-blue countenance see. + + I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, + Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so + offensive, + While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail. + + I am faithful, I do not give out, + The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, + These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a + fire, a burning flame.) + +4 + + Thus in silence in dreams' projections, + Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, + The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, + I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, + Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, + (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and + rested, + Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.) + + + + +LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA. + + + Long, too long America, + Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and + prosperity only, + But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, + grappling with direst fate and recoiling not, + And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse + really are, + (For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse + really are?) + + + + +GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN. + + +1 + + Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling, + Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, + Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows, + Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape, + Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching + content, + Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the + Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, + Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can + walk undisturb'd, + Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman of whom I should never + tire, + Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the + world a rural domestic life, + Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own + ears only, + Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal + sanities! + + These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and + rack'd by the war-strife,) + These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, + While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city, + Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets, + Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time refusing to give me up, + Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul, you give me forever + faces; + (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, + I see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for.) + +2 + + Keep your splendid silent sun, + Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, + Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and + orchards, + Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; + Give me faces and streets--give me these phantoms incessant and + endless along the trottoirs! + Give me interminable eyes--give me women--give me comrades and lovers + by the thousand! + Let me see new ones every day--let me hold new ones by the hand every + day! + Give me such shows--give me the streets of Manhattan! + Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching--give me the sound of + the trumpets and drums! + (The soldiers in companies or regiments--some starting away, flush'd + and reckless, + Some, their time up, returning with thinn'd ranks, young, yet very + old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;) + Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! + O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied! + The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! + The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the + torchlight procession! + The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons + following; + People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, + Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as + now, + The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even + the sight of the wounded,) + Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! + Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. + + + + +DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS. + + + The last sunbeam + Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath, + On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, + Down a new-made double grave. + + Lo, the moon ascending, + Up from the east the silvery round moon, + Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, + Immense and silent moon. + + I see a sad procession, + And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles, + All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, + As with voices and with tears. + + I hear the great drums pounding, + And the small drums steady whirring, + And every blow of the great convulsive drums, + Strikes me through and through. + + For the son is brought with the father, + (In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, + Two veterans son and father dropt together, + And the double grave awaits them.) + + Now nearer blow the bugles, + And the drums strike more convulsive, + And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, + And the strong dead-march enwraps me. + + In the eastern sky up-buoying, + The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd, + ('Tis some mother's large transparent face, + In heaven brighter growing.) + + O strong dead-march you please me! + O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! + O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! + What I have I also give you. + + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and the drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. + + + + +OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE. + + + Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice, + Be not dishearten'd, affection shall solve the problems of freedom + yet, + Those who love each other shall become invincible, + They shall yet make Columbia victorious. + + Sons of the Mother of All, you shall yet be victorious, + You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the remainder of the + earth. + + No danger shall balk Columbia's lovers, + If need be a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves for one. + One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade, + From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another an Oregonese, shall be + friends triune, + More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth. + + To Michigan, Florida perfumes shall tenderly come, + Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted beyond death. + + It shall be customary in the houses and streets to see manly + affection, + The most dauntless and rude shall touch face to face lightly, + The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers, + The continuance of equality shall be comrades. + + These shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops of iron, + I, ecstatic, O partners! O lands! with the love of lovers tie you. + + (Were you looking to be held together by lawyers? + Or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms? + Nay, nor the world, nor any living thing, will so cohere.) + + + + +I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY. + + + I saw old General at bay, + (Old as he was, his gray eyes yet shone out in battle like stars,) + His small force was now completely hemm'd in, in his works, + He call'd for volunteers to run the enemy's lines, a desperate + emergency, + I saw a hundred and more step forth from the ranks, but two or three + were selected, + I saw them receive their orders aside, they listen'd with care, the + adjutant was very grave, + I saw them depart with cheerfulness, freely risking their lives. + + + + +THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION. + + + While my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long, + And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight + passes, + And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the + breath of my infant, + There in the room as I wake from sleep this vision presses upon me; + The engagement opens there and then in fantasy unreal, + The skirmishers begin, they crawl cautiously ahead, I hear the + irregular snap! snap! + I hear the sounds of the different missiles, the short _t-h-t! + t-h-t!_ of the rifle-balls, + I see the shells exploding leaving small white clouds, I hear the + great shells shrieking as they pass, + The grape like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees + (tumultuous now the contest rages,) + All the scenes at the batteries rise in detail before me again, + The crashing and smoking, the pride of the men in their pieces, + The chief-gunner ranges and sights his piece and selects a fuse of + the right time, + After firing I see him lean aside and look eagerly off to note the + effect; + Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging, (the young colonel + leads himself this time with brandish'd sword,) + I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, (quickly fill'd up, no + delay,) + I breathe the suffocating smoke, then the flat clouds hover low + concealing all; + Now a strange lull for a few seconds, not a shot fired on either + side, + Then resumed the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls and orders + of officers, + While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a + shout of applause, (some special success,) + And ever the sound of the cannon far or near, (rousing even in dreams + a devilish exultation and all the old mad joy in the depths + of my soul,) + And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions, batteries, + cavalry, moving hither and thither, + (The falling, dying, I heed not, the wounded dripping and red I heed + not, some to the rear are hobbling,) + Grime, heat, rush, aide-de-camps galloping by or on a full run, + With the patter of small arms, the warning _s-s-t_ of the rifles, + (these in my vision I hear or see,) + And bombs bursting in air, and at night the vari-color'd rockets. + + + + +ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS. + + + Who are you dusky woman, so ancient hardly human, + With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet + Why rising by the roadside here, do you the colours greet? + + ('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sands and pines, + Forth from thy hovel door thou Ethiopia com'st to me, + As under doughty Sherman I march toward the sea.) + + _Me master years a hundred since from my parents sunder'd, + A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught, + Then hither me across the sea the cruel slaver brought._ + + No further does she say, but lingering all the day, + Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, + And courtesies to the regiments, the guidons moving by. + + What is it fateful woman, so blear, hardly human? + Why wag your head with turban bound, yellow, red and green? + Are the things so strange and marvellous you see or have seen? + + + + +NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME. + + + Not youth pertains to me, + Nor delicatesse, I cannot beguile the time with talk, + Awkward in the parlor, neither a dancer nor elegant, + In the learn'd coterie sitting constrain'd and still, for learning + inures not to me, + Beauty, knowledge, inure not to me-yet there are two or three things + inure to me, + I have nourish'd the wounded and sooth'd many a dying soldier, + And at intervals waiting or in the midst of camp, + Composed these songs. + + + + +RACE OF VETERANS. + + + Race of veterans--race of victors! + Race of the soil, ready for conflict--race of the conquering march; + (No more credulity's race, abiding-temper'd race,) + Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself, + Race of passion and the storm. + + + + +WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE. + + + World take good notice, silver stars fading, + Milky hue ript, weft of white detaching, + Coals thirty-eight, baleful and burning, + Scarlet, significant, hands off warning, + Now and henceforth flaunt from these shores. + + + + +O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY. + + + O tan-faced prairie-boy, + Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift, + Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the + recruits, + You came, taciturn, with nothing to give-we but look'd on each other, + When lo; more than all the gifts of the world you gave me. + + + + +LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON. + + + Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, + Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, + purple, + On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide, + Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. + + + + +RECONCILIATION. + + + Word over all, beautiful as the sky, + Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be + utterly lost, + That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash + again, and ever again, this soil'd world; + For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, + I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin-I draw near, + Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the + coffin. + + + + +HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE. + +(_Washington City, 1865._) + + + How solemn as one by one, + As the ranks returning worn and sweaty, as the men file by where I + stand, + As the faces the masks appear, as I glance at the faces studying the + masks, + (As I glance upward out of this page studying you, dear friend, + whoever you are,) + How solemn the thought of my whispering soul to each in the ranks, + and to you, + I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul, + O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend, + Nor the bayonet stab what you really are; + The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best, + Waiting secure and content, which the bullet could never kill, + Nor the bayonet stab O friend. + + + + +AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO. + + + As I lay with my head in your lap camerado, + The confession I made I resume, what I said to you and the open air I + resume, + I know I am restless and make others so, + I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death, + For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle + them, + I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have + been had all accepted me, + I heed not and have never heeded either experience, cautions, + majorities, nor ridicule, + And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing to me; + And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing to me; + Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still + urge you, without the least idea what is our destination, + Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and defeated. + + + + +DELICATE CLUSTER. + + + Delicate cluster! flag of teeming life! + Covering all my lands-all my seashores lining! + Flag of death! (how I watch'd you through the smoke of battle + pressing! + How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!) + Flag cerulean-sunny flag, with the orbs of night dappled! + Ah my silvery beauty-ah my woolly white and crimson! + Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty! + My sacred one, my mother. + + + + +TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN. + + + Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me? + Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing rhymes? + Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow? + Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand--nor + am I now; + (I have been born of the same as the war was born, + The drum-corps' rattle is ever to me sweet music, I love well the + martial dirge, + With slow wail and convulsive throb leading the officer's funeral;) + What to such as you anyhow such a poet as I? therefore leave my + works, + And go lull yourself with what you can understand, and with + piano-tunes, + For I lull nobody, and you will never understand me. + + + + +LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS. + + + Lo, Victress on the peaks, + Where thou with mighty brow regarding the world, + (The world O Libertad, that vainly conspired against thee,) + Out of its countless beleaguering toils, after thwarting them all, + Dominant, with the dazzling sun around thee, + Flauntest now unharm'd in immortal soundness and bloom--lo, in these + hours supreme, + No poem proud, I chanting bring to thee, nor mastery's rapturous + verse, + But a cluster containing night's darkness and blood-dripping wounds, + And psalms of the dead. + + + + +SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. + +(_Washington City, 1865._) + + + Spirit whose work is done--spirit of dreadful hours! + Ere departing fade from my eyes your forests of bayonets; + Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever unfaltering + pressing), + Spirit of many a solemn day and many a savage scene--electric spirit, + That with muttering voice through the war now closed, like a tireless + phantom flitted, + Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat and beat the + drum, + Now as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to the last, + reverberates round me, + As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from the battles, + As the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders, + As I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders, + As those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them appearing in the + distance, approach and pass on, returning homeward, + Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the right and left, + Evenly lightly rising and falling while the steps keep time; + Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death + next day, + Touch my mouth ere you depart, press my lips close, + Leave me your pulses of rage-bequeath them to me-fill me with + currents convulsive, + Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when you are gone, + Let them identify you to the future in these songs. + + + + +ADIEU TO A SOLDIER. + + + Adieu O soldier, + You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,) + The rapid march, the life of the camp, + The hot contention of opposing fronts, the long manoeuvre, + Bed battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong, terrific + game, + Spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you + and like of you all fill'd, + With war and war's expression. + + Adieu dear comrade, + Your mission is fulfill'd--but I, more warlike, + Myself and this contentious soul of mine, + Still on our own campaigning bound, + Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined, + Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis, often baffled, + Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out--aye here, + To fiercer, weightier battles give expression. + + + + +TURN O LIBERTAD. + + + Turn O Libertad, for the war is over, + From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute, + sweeping the world, + Turn from lands retrospective recording proofs of the past, + From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past, + From the chants of the feudal world, the triumphs of kings, slavery, + caste, + Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come--give up that + backward world, + Leave to the singers of hitherto, give them the trailing past, + But what remains remains for singers for you--wars to come are for + you, + (Lo, how the wars of the past have duly inured to you, and the wars + of the present also inure;) + Then turn, and be not alarm'd O Libertad--turn your undying face, + To where the future, greater than all the past, + Is swiftly, surely preparing for you. + + + + +TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD. + + + To the leaven'd soil they trod calling I sing for the last, + (Forth from my tent emerging for good, loosing, untying the + tent-ropes,) + In the freshness the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and + vistas again to peace restored, + To the fiery fields emanative and the endless vistas beyond, to the + South and the North, + To the leaven'd soil of the general Western world to attest my songs, + To the Alleghanian hills and the tireless Mississippi, + To the rocks I calling sing, and all the trees in the woods, + To the plains of the poems of heroes, to the prairies spreading wide, + To the far-off sea and the unseen winds, and the sane impalpable air; + And responding they answer all, (but not in words,) + The average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely, + The prairie draws me close, as the father to bosom broad the son, + The Northern ice and rain that began me nourish me to the end, + But the hot sun of the South is to fully ripen my songs. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Drum Taps, by Walt Whitman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRUM TAPS *** + +***** This file should be named 8801.txt or 8801.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/0/8801/ + +Produced by Distributed Proofreading + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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