Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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;)

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.

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?

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;

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 be-
tween.

⁴ But drill and parade are over—they march back to
quarters;

Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clap-
ping!

⁵ 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.

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,

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 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;

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.

⁸ As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declara-
tion;

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,

It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army.

⁹ 'Twas a bold act then;

The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had
sent them from over the sea;

We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at
anchor,

And the transports, swarming with soldiers.

¹⁰ A few days more, and they landed—and then the
battle.

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?

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.

¹⁴ 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, wedging in from the east,
fiercely playing their guns,

That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the
enemy's mercy.

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;

But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and
thinning them!

¹⁶ 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.

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;

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.

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,

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.

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;

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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