 | Leaves of grass (1872) |  |
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Leaves of Grass.
A BOSTON BALLAD.
(1854.)
1
To get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early;Here's a good place at the corner—I must stand and see the show.
2
Clear the way there, Jonathan!Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the apparitions copiously tumbling.
3
I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.4
How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.
5
A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping,Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.
6
Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth!The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see!
Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear!
Cock'd hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist!
Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoulders!
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7
What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums?Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level them?
8
If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President's marshal;If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon.
9
For shame old maniacs! Bring down those toss'd arms, and let your white hair be;Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at them from the windows,
See how well dress'd—see how orderly they conduct themselves.
10
Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you retreating?Is this hour with the living too dead for you?
11
Retreat then! Pell-mell!To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers!
I do not think you belong here, anyhow.
12
But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?13
I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a committee to England;They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste!
Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey;
Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper,
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay.
14
Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government cannon,241
15
This centre-piece for them:Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women!
16
The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay,Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.
17
You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own.18
Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day;You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.
Year of Meteors.
(1859–60.)
Year of meteors! brooding year!I would bind in words retrospective, some of your deeds and signs;
I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad;
I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the scaffold in Virginia;
(I was at hand—silent I stood, with teeth shut close—I watch'd;
I stood very near you, old man, when cool and indifferent, but trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the scaffold;)
—I would sing in my copious song your census returns of The States,
The tables of population and products—I would sing of your ships and their cargoes,
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Songs thereof would I sing—to all that hitherward comes would I welcome give;
And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me, sweet boy of England!
Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds, as you pass'd with your cortege of nobles?
There in the crowds stood I, and singled you out with attachment;
I know not why, but I loved you ... (and so go forth little song,
Far over sea speed like an arrow, carrying my love all folded,
And find in his palace the youth I love, and drop these lines at his feet;)
—Nor forget I to sing of the wonder, the ship as she swam up my bay,
Well-shaped and stately the Great Eastern swam up my bay, she was 600 feet long,
Her, moving swiftly, surrounded by myriads of small craft, I forget not to sing;
—Nor the comet that came unannounced, out of the north, flaring in heaven;
Nor the strange huge meteor procession, dazzling and clear, shooting over our heads,
(A moment, a moment long, it sail'd its balls of unearthly light over our heads,
Then departed, dropt in the night, and was gone;)
—Of such, and fitful as they, I sing—with gleams from them would I gleam and patch these chants;
Your chants, O year all mottled with evil and good! year of forebodings! year of the youth I love!
Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!—lo! even here, one equally transient and strange!
As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this book,
What am I myself but one of your meteors?
| Leaves of grass (1872) | |