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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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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, till 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. |
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From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the
doorways,
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Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming. |
The young men falling in and arming, |
The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the black-
smith's hammer, tost aside with precipitation,)
|
The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the
court,
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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;
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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,
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Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musket-barrels, |
The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the
sunrise cannon and again at sunset,
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Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and
embark from the wharves,
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(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!)
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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,)
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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;
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War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no
turning away;
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War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing
to welcome it.
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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,
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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,
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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,
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Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck
along the Ohio river,
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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,
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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,
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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.
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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,
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No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—
would they continue?
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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?
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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, |
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To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself, to Michigan then, |
To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are
inimitable;)
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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,
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To Texas and so along up toward California, to roam accepted
everywhere;
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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! book-words! 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, |
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Come up here, dear little child, |
To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measure-
less 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 thesea 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. |
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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,
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I see mechanics working, I see buildings everywhere founded,
going up, or finish'd,
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I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn
by the locomotives,
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I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New
Orleans,
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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 South-
ern 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,)
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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,
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Runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance—and now the hal-
yards have rais'd it,
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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, |
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And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of
children,
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Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash
of the sea,
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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,
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And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi
with bends and chutes,
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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,
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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 pros-
perity, (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,
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Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships, |
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Not the superb ships with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and
carrying cargoes,
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Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues—but you as hence-
forth I see you,
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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,
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I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds, |
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Saw from below what arose and mounted, (O superb! O wild as
my heart, and powerful!)
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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,
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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.
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships! |
O the beautiful sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!) |
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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 con-
demn 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. |
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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 hilltop, this same 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. |
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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, |
Rais'd in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known per-
sonally 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, |
Then 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. |
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|
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 off 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, |
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|
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 inter-
cept 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.
|
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|
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
outline,
|
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, 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?) |
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|
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, |
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. |
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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 care-
fully 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. |
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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 stanch 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. |
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|
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 woolen 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, |
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|
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 inscrip-
tion 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 com-
pose 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,
|
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|
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 draw 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.
|
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, |
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, |
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|
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! |
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 sicken-
ing, 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, |
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|
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.
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, grap-
pling 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, |
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|
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. |
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|
DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS.
Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath, |
On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, |
Down a new-made double grave. |
Up from the east the silvery round moon, |
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, |
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, |
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|
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,
|
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|
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 mid-
night 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 pressesupon 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,
|
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|
(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 COLORS.
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 colors 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 marvelous 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, |
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|
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.
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;
|
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|
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. |
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|
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,
|
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|
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 tire-
less 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.
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, |
Red 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. |
Your mission is fulfill'd—but I, more warlike, |
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|
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,
|
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|
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. |
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