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Leaves of Grass (1891-92)
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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,
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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,
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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,
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And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see south and
south-east and south-west,
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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,
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As eighty-five years a-gone no mere parade receiv'd with applause
of friends,
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But a battle which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is,
I took part in it,
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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,
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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,
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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?
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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.
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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,
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The British advancing, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing
their guns,
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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,
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But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning
them!
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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,
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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,
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Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back
to the works on this hill,
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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,
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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,
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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,
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Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over
their victory.
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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.
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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,
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And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for
the last time.
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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.
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And is this the ground Washington trod? |
And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he
cross'd,
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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,
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The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd forth to inter-
cept the enemy,
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They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon
them,
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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;
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In the midst of you stands an encampment very old, |
Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade. |
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