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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
contents
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DRUM-TAPS.
I 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 .
|
DRUM-TAPS.
1
1 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 pre-
lude, songs of soldiers,)
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How Manhattan drum-taps led. |
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2
2 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 clench'd hand the pavement. |
3 A shock electric—the night sustain'd it; |
Till with ominous hum, our hive at day-break pour'd
out its myriads.
|
4 From the houses then, and the workshops, and
through all the doorways,
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Leapt they tumultuous—and lo! Manhattan arming. |
3
5 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 precipita-
tion;)
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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;
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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;
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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!)
|
The blood of the city up—arm'd! arm'd! the cry
everywhere;
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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 preced-
ing, clearing the way;
|
The unpent enthusiasm—the wild cheers of the crowd
for their favorites;
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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 medi-
cines;
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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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4
6 Mannahatta a-march!—and it's O to sing it well! |
It's O for a manly life in the camp! |
7 And the sturdy artillery! |
The guns, bright as gold—the work for giants—to serve
well the guns:
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Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for
salutes for courtesies merely;
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Put in something else now besides powder and wadding. |
5
8 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;
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But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta! |
1861.
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, ad-
vancing, carrying a rifle on your shoulder,
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With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands
—with a knife in a belt at your side,
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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,
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Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the
workmen, the dwellers in Manhattan;
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Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois
and Indiana,
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Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and de-
scending the Alleghanies;
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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,
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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;
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Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-
lipp'd cannon,
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I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year. |
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
1
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;
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Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or
gathering his grain;
|
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you
bugles blow.
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2
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow! |
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in
the streets:
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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 specu-
lators—Would they continue?
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Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt
to sing?
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Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case be-
fore the judge?
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Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder
blow.
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3
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 en-
treaties;
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Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they
lie awaiting the hearses,
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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 Michi-
gan then,
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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,
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To Tennessee and Kentucky—to the Carolinas and
Georgia, to sing theirs,
|
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 insepa-
rable,
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And then the song of each member of These States. |
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RISE, O DAYS, FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS.
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;
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Long I roam'd the woods of the north—long I watch'd
Niagara pouring;
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I travel'd the prairies over, and slept on their breast—
I cross'd the Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus;
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I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd
out to sea;
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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; |
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;
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Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning, as
sudden and fast amid the din they chased each
other across the sky;
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—These, and such as these, I, elate, saw—saw with
wonder, yet pensive and masterful;
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All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around
me;
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Yet there with my soul I fed—I fed content, super-
cilious.
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2
'Twas well, O soul! 'twas a good preparation you gave
me!
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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;
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Not through the mighty woods we go, but through the
mightier cities;
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Something for us is pouring now, more than Niagara
pouring;
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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?
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What, to passions I witness around me to-day? Was
the sea risen?
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Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black
clouds?
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Lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more
deadly and savage;
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Manhattan, rising, advancing with menacing front—
Cincinnati, Chicago, unchain'd;
|
—What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold
what comes here!
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How it climbs with daring feet and hands! how it
dashes!
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How the true thunder bellows after the lightning! how
bright the flashes of lightning!
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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,
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In a lull of the deafening confusion.) |
3
Thunder on! stride on, Democracy! strike with venge-
ful stroke!
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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 im-
mortal 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,
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Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft,
ironically hissing low;
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—The cities I loved so well, I abandon'd and left—I
sped to the certainties suitable to me;
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Hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies,
and Nature's dauntlessness,
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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;
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—But now I no longer wait—I am fully satisfied—I am
glutted;
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I have witness'd the true lightning—I have witness'd
my cities electric;
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I have lived to behold man burst forth, and warlike
America rise;
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Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern sol-
itary wilds,
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No more on the mountains roam, or sail the stormy sea. |
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 faades of mar-
ble and iron!
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Proud and passionate city! mettlesome, mad, extrava-
gant city!
|
Spring up, O city! not for peace alone, but be indeed
yourself, warlike!
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Fear not! submit to no models but your own, O city! |
Behold me! incarnate me, as I have incarnated you! |
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I have rejected nothing you offer'd me—whom you
adopted, I have adopted;
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Good or bad, I never question you—I love all—I do not
condemn anything;
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I chant and celebrate all that is yours—yet peace no
more;
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In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is
mine;
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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.)
1 GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary; |
The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gen-
tlemen;)
|
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;
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Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have
them serve me.
|
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,
|
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,
|
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;
|
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;
|
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,
|
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;
|
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;
|
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;
|
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. |
19 That was the going out of the brigade of the young-
est men, two thousand strong;
|
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,
|
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, klinking wine-glasses
together over their victory.
|
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.
|
23 I saw him at the river-side, |
Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embar-
cation;
|
My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were
all passed over;
|
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,
|
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?
|
28 It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good; |
I must copy the story, and send it eastward and west-
ward;
|
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;
|
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;
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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. |
30 Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are
more valuable than your owners supposed;
|
Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin'd to me at
sunrise with something besides the sun.
|
31 Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an
encampment very old;
|
Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade. |
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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. |
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 gaily in the wind. |
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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.
|
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 left 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. |
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Come Up from the Fields, Father.
1
1 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.
|
2
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?)
|
3 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.
|
3
4 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.
|
5 Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—
her steps trembling;
|
She does not tarry to smooth her hair, nor adjust her
cap;
|
6 Open the envelope quickly; |
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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— gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry
skirmish, taken to hospital,
|
At present low, but will soon be better . |
4
7 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. |
8 Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter
speaks through her sobs;
|
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dis-
may'd;)
|
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better . |
5
9 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;
|
10 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 up-
ward 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,
|
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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 de-
posited;
|
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—'tis 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;
|
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|
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 of soldiers
—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 DAY-BREAK GREY AND DIM.
1 A SIGHT in camp in the day-break grey 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,
|
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|
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out
there, untended lying,
|
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen
blanket,
|
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. |
2 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-
grey'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
|
Who are you, my dear comrade? |
3 Then to the second I step—And who are you, my
child and darling?
|
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? |
4 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 of
yours is the face of the Christ himself;
|
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he
lies.
|
NOT THE PILOT.
NOT the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship
into port, though beaten back, and many times
baffled;
|
Not the path-finder, 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 free march for These States,
|
To be exhilarating music to them—a battle-call, rousing
to arms, if need be—years, centuries hence.
|
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AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS.
1 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 . |
2 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, ab-
rupt, 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 . |
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 my-
self;
|
Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baf-
fled?
|
And sullen hymns of defeat? |
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THE DRESSER.
1
1 AN old man bending, I come, among new faces, |
Years looking backward, resuming, in answer to chil-
dren,
|
Come tell us, old man, as from young men and maidens
that love me;
|
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
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.)
|
3 But in silence, in dreams' projections, |
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes
on,
|
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|
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the
imprints off the sand,
|
In nature's reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I
enter the doors—(while for you up there,
|
Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of
strong heart.)
|
3
4 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 unavoid-
able;
|
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.)
|
4
6 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;
|
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|
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the
eye, yet life struggles hard;
|
(Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death! |
7 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.) |
8 I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep; |
But a day or two more—for see, the frame all wasted
already, and sinking,
|
And the yellow-blue countenance see. |
9 I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bul-
let 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.
|
10 I am faithful, I do not give out; |
The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdo-
men;
|
These and more I dress with impassive hand—(yet deep
in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)
|
5
11 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.) |
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LONG, TOO LONG, O LAND.
Traveling roads all even and peaceful, you learn'd from
joys and prosperity only;
|
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish—ad-
vancing, 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 flow-
ers, 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, reliev'd, recluse
by myself, for my own ears only;
|
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|
Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again, O
Nature, your primal sanities!
|
—These, demanding to have them, (tired with cease-
less 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 in-
cessant 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 Manhat-
tan!
|
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give
me the sound of the trumpets and drums!
|
(The soldiers in companies or regiments—some, start-
ing away, flush'd and reckless;
|
Some, their time up, returning, with thinn'd ranks—
young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing
nothing;)
|
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|
—Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed
with the black ships!
|
O such for me! O an intense life! O 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 torch-light 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 the
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
—with varied chorus, and light of the sparkling
eyes;
|
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. |
DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS.
1
Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath, |
On the pavement here—and there beyond, it is looking,
Down a new-made double grave.
|
2
Up from the east, the silvery round moon; |
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon;
Immense and silent moon.
|
3
And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles; |
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|
All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
|
4
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.
|
5
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.
|
6
Now nearer blow the bugles, |
And the drums strike more convulsive; |
And the day-light o'er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
|
7
In the eastern sky up-buoying, |
The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd; |
('Tis some mother's large, transparent face,
In heaven brighter growing.)
|
8
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.
|
9
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.
|
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|
OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE.
1 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.
|
2 Sons of the Mother of All! you shall yet be victo-
rious!
|
You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks of all the re-
mainder of the earth.
|
3 No danger shall balk Columbia's lovers; |
If need be, a thousand shall sternly immolate them-
selves for one.
|
4 One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's com-
rade;
|
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.
|
5 To Michigan, Florida, perfumes shall tenderly come; |
Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted
beyond death.
|
6 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. |
7 These shall tie you and band you stronger than hoops
of iron;
|
I, extatic, O partners! O lands! with the love of lovers
tie you.
|
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|
8 (Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers? |
Or by an agreement on a paper? or by arms? |
—Nay—nor the world, nor any living thing, will so
cohere.)
|
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 va-
cant 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, (quick, tumultuous, now the contest rages!)
|
All the scenes at the batteries themselves 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 se-
lects 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;)
|
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|
I breathe the suffocating smoke—then the flat clouds
hover low, concealing all;
|
Now a strange lull comes 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 hob-
bling;)
|
Grime, heat, rush—aid-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.
|
I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY.
I saw old General at bay; |
(Old as he was, his grey 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.
|
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|
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 ghast-
ly, swollen, purple;
|
On the dead, on their backs, with their 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, inces-
santly 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;
|
I bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white
face in the coffin.
|
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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 bayo-
nets;
|
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;
|
While the muskets of the young men yet lean over their
shoulders;
|
While I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoul-
ders;
|
While 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, as 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. |
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|
HOW SOLEMN, AS ONE BY ONE.
( Washington City, 1865.)
How solemn, as one by one, |
As the ranks returning, all 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! |
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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|
TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD.
To the leaven'd soil they trod, calling, I sing, for the
last;
|
(Not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead, |
But 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 average earth, the wordless earth, witness of
war and peace,)
|
To the Alleghanian hills, and the tireless Mississippi, |
To the rocks I, calling, sing, and all the trees in the
woods,
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To the plain of the poems of heroes, to the prairie
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 ripen my songs. |
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