Cluster: Drum-Taps. (1871)

DRUM-TAPS.

3

⁵To 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;) 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; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper,  
 porter, all leaving; 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; Outdoors arming—indoors arming—the flash of the  
 musket-barrels; The white tents cluster in camps—the arm'd sentries  
 around—the sunrise cannon, and again at sunset;   [ begin page 263 ]ppp.00270.265.jpg Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the  
 city, and embark from the wharves; (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; 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;) The tumultuous escort—the ranks of policemen preced- 
 ing, clearing the way; The unpent enthusiasm—the wild cheers of the crowd  
 for their favorites; 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; The women volunteering for nurses—the work begun  
 for, in earnest—no mere parade now; War! an arm'd race is advancing!—the welcome for  
 battle—no turning away; War! be it weeks, months, or years—an arm'd race is  
 advancing to welcome it.

4

⁶Mannahatta a-march!—and it's O to sing it well! It's O for a manly life in the camp! ⁷And the sturdy artillery! The guns, bright as gold—the work for giants—to serve  
 well the guns:   [ begin page 264 ]ppp.00270.266.jpg Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for  
 salutes for courtesies merely; Put in something else now besides powder and wadding.

1861.

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD.

RISE, O DAYS, FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS.

2

'Twas well, O soul! 'twas a good preparation you gave  
 me! 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; Not through the mighty woods we go, but through the  
 mightier cities;   [ begin page 268 ]ppp.00270.270.jpg Something for us is pouring now, more than Niagara  
 pouring; 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? What, to passions I witness around me to-day? Was  
 the sea risen? Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black  
 clouds? Lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more  
 deadly and savage; Manhattan, rising, advancing with menacing front—  
 Cincinnati, Chicago, unchain'd; —What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold  
 what comes here! How it climbs with daring feet and hands! how it  
 dashes! How the true thunder bellows after the lightning! how  
 bright the flashes of lightning! 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, In a lull of the deafening confusion.)

3

Thunder on! stride on, Democracy! strike with venge- 
 ful stroke! 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; —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,   [ begin page 269 ]ppp.00270.271.jpg Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft,  
 ironically hissing low; —The cities I loved so well, I abandon'd and left—I  
 sped to the certainties suitable to me; Hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies,  
 and Nature's dauntlessness, 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; —But now I no longer wait—I am fully satisfied—I am  
 glutted; I have witness'd the true lightning—I have witness'd  
 my cities electric; I have lived to behold man burst forth, and warlike  
 America rise; Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern sol- 
 itary wilds, No more on the mountains roam, or sail the stormy sea.

CITY OF SHIPS.

THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY.

VOLUNTEER OF 1861-2.

¹GIVE 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. ²Rest, 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? ³Why, 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;   [ begin page 271 ]ppp.00270.273.jpg 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. ⁴But drill and parade are over—they march back to  
 quarters; Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clap- 
 ping! ⁵As 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.

⁶When 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. ⁷Aye, this is the ground; My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled  
 from graves;   [ begin page 272 ]ppp.00270.274.jpg 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. ⁸As 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. ¹⁰A few days more, and they landed—and then the  
 battle. ¹¹Twenty thousand were brought against us, A veteran force, furnish'd with good artillery. ¹²I 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. ¹³Who do you think that was, marching steadily, stern- 
 ly confronting death? It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand  
 strong,   [ begin page 273 ]ppp.00270.275.jpg Rais'd in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them  
 known personally to the General. ¹⁴Jauntily 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. ¹⁵The 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! ¹⁶It 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. ¹⁷Meanwhile 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. ¹⁸We 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. ¹⁹That was the going out of the brigade of the young- 
 est men, two thousand strong; Few return'd—nearly all remain in Brooklyn. ²⁰That, and here, my General's first battle;   [ begin page 274 ]ppp.00270.276.jpg No women looking on, nor sunshine to bask in—it did  
 not conclude with applause; Nobody clapp'd hands here then. ²¹But, 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. ²²So, 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. ²³I 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. ²⁴Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom; Many no doubt thought of capitulation. ²⁵But 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.

²⁶Enough—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.   [ begin page 275 ]ppp.00270.277.jpg ²⁷And 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? ²⁸It 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. ²⁹See! 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. ³⁰Ah, 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. ³¹Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an  
 encampment very old; Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade.

An Army Corps on the March.

Cavalry Crossing a Ford.

Bivouac on a Mountain Side.

By the Bivouac's Fitful Flame.

Come Up from the Fields, Father.

3

⁴Down 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. ⁵Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—  
 her steps trembling; She does not tarry to smooth her hair, nor adjust her  
 cap; ⁶Open the envelope quickly;   [ begin page 279 ]ppp.00270.281.jpg 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.

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT.

A MARCH IN THE RANKS HARD-PREST, AND  
 THE ROAD UNKNOWN.

A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAY-BREAK GREY  
 AND DIM.

¹A 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,   [ begin page 283 ]ppp.00270.285.jpg 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.

NOT THE PILOT.

AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS.

Year that Trembled and Reel'd Beneath Me.

THE DRESSER.

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²O 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.) ³But in silence, in dreams' projections, While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes  
 on,   [ begin page 286 ]ppp.00270.288.jpg 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.)

4

⁶On, 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;   [ begin page 287 ]ppp.00270.289.jpg Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the  
 eye, yet life struggles hard; (Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death! In mercy come quickly.) ⁷From 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.) ⁸I 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. ⁹I 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. ¹⁰I 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.)

LONG, TOO LONG, O LAND.

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;   [ begin page 289 ]ppp.00270.291.jpg 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;)   [ begin page 290 ]ppp.00270.292.jpg —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.

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I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles;   [ begin page 291 ]ppp.00270.293.jpg All the channels of the city streets they're flooding,  
 As with voices and with tears.

OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE.

THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION.

I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY.

O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY.

LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON.

RECONCILIATION.

SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE.

HOW SOLEMN, AS ONE BY ONE.

Not Youth Pertains to Me.

TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD.