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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
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THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY.
VOLUNTEER OF 1861-2.
(At Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian.)
1 GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary; |
The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gen-
tlemen;)
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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;
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Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have
them serve me.
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2 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 the orders? |
Do you hear the clank of the muskets? |
3 Why, what comes over you now, old man? |
Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convul-
sively?
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The troops are but drilling—they are yet surrounded
with smiles;
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Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the
women;
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While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines
down;
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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 be-
tween.
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4 But drill and parade are over—they march back to
quarters;
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Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clap-
ping!
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5 As wending, the crowds now part and disperse—but
we, old man,
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Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must
remain;
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You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. |
THE CENTENARIAN.
6 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 hill-top, this same ground. |
7 Aye, this is the ground; |
My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled
from graves;
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The years recede, pavements and stately houses disap-
pear;
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Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are
mounted;
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I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to
bay;
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I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and
slopes;
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Here we lay encamp'd—it was this time in summer also. |
8 As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declara-
tion;
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It was read here—the whole army paraded—it was
read to us here;
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By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the mid-
dle—he held up his unsheath'd sword,
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It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army. |
The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had
sent them from over the sea;
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We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at
anchor,
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And the transports, swarming with soldiers. |
10 A few days more, and they landed—and then the
battle.
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11 Twenty thousand were brought against us, |
A veteran force, furnish'd with good artillery. |
12 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 how well it stood, confronting death. |
13 Who do you think that was, marching steadily, stern-
ly confronting death?
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It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand
strong,
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Rais'd in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them
known personally to the General.
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14 Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward
Gowanus' waters;
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Till of a sudden, unlook'd for, by defiles through the
woods, gain'd at night,
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The British advancing, wedging 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.
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15 The General watch'd them from this hill; |
They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their
environment;
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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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16 It sickens me yet, that slaughter! |
I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the
General;
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I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. |
17 Meanwhile the British maneuver'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. |
18 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. |
19 That was the going out of the brigade of the young-
est men, two thousand strong;
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Few return'd—nearly all remain in Brooklyn. |
20 That, and here, my General's first battle; |
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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. |
21 But, in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill
rain,
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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, klinking wine-glasses
together over their victory.
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22 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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23 I saw him at the river-side, |
Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embar-
cation;
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My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were
all passed 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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24 Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom; |
Many no doubt thought of capitulation. |
25 But when my General pass'd me, |
As he stood in his boat, and look'd toward the coming
sun,
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I saw something different from capitulation. |
TERMINUS.
26 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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27 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?
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28 It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good; |
I must copy the story, and send it eastward and west-
ward;
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I must preserve that look, as it beam'd on you, rivers
of Brooklyn.
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29 See! as the annual round returns, the phantoms
return;
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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;
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The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march'd
forth to intercept 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,
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Baptized that day in many a young man's bloody
wounds,
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In death, defeat, and sisters', mothers' tears. |
30 Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are
more valuable than your owners supposed;
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Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin'd to me at
sunrise with something besides the sun.
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31 Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an
encampment very old;
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Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade. |
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