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Leaves of Grass (1856)
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22—Poem of Apparitions in Boston, The 78th Year of These States.
| CLEAR the way there, Jonathan! |
Way for the President's marshal! Way for
the government cannon!
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Way for the federal foot and dragoons—and the
apparitions copiously tumbling.
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I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston
town,
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Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand
and see the show.
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I love to look on the stars and stripes, I hope the
fifes will play Yankee Doodle.
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How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost
troops!
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Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff
through Boston town.
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A fog follows, antiques of the same come
limping,
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Some appear wooden-legged and some appear
bandaged and bloodless.
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Why this is a show! It has called the dead out
of the earth!
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The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to
see!
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Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear
of it!
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Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of
mist!
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Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's
shoulders!
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What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is
all this chattering of bare gums?
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Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you
mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and
level them?
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If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see
the President's marshal,
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If you groan such groans you might balk the
government cannon.
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For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those
tossed arms and let your white hair be,
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Here gape your smart grand-sons—their wives
gaze at them from the windows,
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See how well-dressed—see how orderly they
conduct themselves.
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Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you
retreating?
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| Is this hour with the living too dead for you? |
Retreat then! Pell-mell! Back to the hills, old
limpers!
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| I do not think you belong here, anyhow. |
But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I
tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?
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I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a
committee to England,
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They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go
with a cart to the royal vault,
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Dig out King George's coffin—unwrap him quick
from the grave-clothes—box up his bones for
a journey,
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Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for
you, black-bellied clipper!
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Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer
straight toward Boston bay.
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Now call the President's marshal again, bring
out the government cannon,
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Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make
another procession, guard it with foot and
dragoons.
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| This centre-piece for them: |
Look! all orderly citizens—look from the win-
dows, women!
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The committee open the box, set up the regal
ribs, glue those that will not stay,
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Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a
crown on top of the skull.
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You have got your revenge, old buster! The
crown is come to its own, and more than its
own.
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Stick your hands in your pockets Jonathan—you
are a made man from this day,
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You are mighty cute, and here is one of your
bargains.
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