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On, on the Same, Ye Jocund Twain!


ON, on the same, ye jocund twain! My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years, Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged  
 in one—combining all,
My single soul—aims, confirmations, failures, joys—Nor single  
 soul alone,
I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's)  
 —the trial great, the victory great,
A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern  
 world, the ancient, medieval,
Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats—  
 here at the west a voice triumphant—justifying all,
A gladsome pealing cry—a song for once of utmost pride and  
I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde,  
 (the best no sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old  
(My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's,  
 autumn's spread,
I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter-  
 cool'd the same;)
As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and  
Wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions, On, on, ye jocund twain! continue on the same!
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