Leaves of grass. :: :: University of Virginia Library

ENTERED according to act of Congress, in the year 1865, by WALT WHITMAN, in the Clerk's Office of the United States District Court of the Southern District of New York.

CONTENTS.

Drum-Taps............................................	5
Shut not your doors to me proud Libraries............	8
Cavalry crossing a ford..............................	8
Song of the Banner at Day-Break......................	9
By the bivouac's fitful flame........................	16
1861.................................................	17
From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird.............	18
Beginning my studies.................................	18
The Centenarian's Story..............................	19
Pioneers! O Pioneers!................................	25
Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither.....	30
The Dresser..........................................	31
When I heard the learn'd Astronomer..................	34
Rise O Days from your fathomless deeps...............	35
A child's amaze......................................	37
Beat! beat ! drums !.................................	38
Come up from the fields, father......................	39
City of ships........................................	41
Mother and babe......................................	41
Vigil strange I kept on the fled one night...........	42
Bathed in war's perfume..............................	43
A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown	44
Long, too long, O land...............................	45
A sight in camp in the day-break grey and dim........	46
A farm picture.......................................	46
Give me the splendid silent sun......................	47
Over the carnage rose prophetic a voice..............	49
Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me?...................	50
Year of meteors......................................	51
The Torch............................................	52
Years of the unperform'd.............................	53
Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me.............	54
The Veteran's vision.................................	55
O tan-faced Prairie-boy..............................	56

Camps of green..........................................	57
As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods.................	58
Hymn of dead soldiers...................................	59
The ship................................................	60
A Broadway pageant......................................	61
Flag of stars, thick-sprinkled bunting..................	65
Old Ireland.............................................	66
Look down fair moon.....................................	66
Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd.....................	67
World, take good notice.................................	67
I saw old General at bay................................	68
Others may praise what they like........................	68
Solid, ironical, rolling orb............................	68
Hush'd be the camps to-day..............................	69
Weav in, weave in, my hardy soul........................	69
Turn, O Libertad........................................	70
Bivonac on a mountain side..............................	70
Pensive on her dead gazing, I heard the mother of all...	71
Not youth pertains to me................................	72

DRUM-TAPS.

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,)
How Manhattan drum-taps led.
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,
Leapt they tumultuous — and lo! Manhattan arming.
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 precipi-     tation;)
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 gathering everywhere by common consent, and      arming;
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;
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 cov-     er'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 preceed-     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.
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:
Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for      salutes for courtesies merely;
Put in something else now besides powder and wadding.
8  And you, Lady of Ships! you Mannahatta!
Old matron of the city! this proud, friendly, turbulent      city!
Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly      frown'd amid all your children;
But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta!

SHUT NOT YOUR DOORS TO ME
PROUD LIBRARIES.

SHUT not your doors to me, proud libraries,
For that which was lacking among you all, yet needed      most, I bring;
A book I have made for your dear sake, O soldiers,
And for you, O soul of man, and you, love of comrades;
The words of my book nothing, the life of it every-     thing;
A book separate, not link'd with the rest, nor felt by      the intellect;
But you will feel every word, O Libertad! arm'd      Libertad!
It shall pass by the intellect to swim the sea, the air,
With joy with you, O soul of man.

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;
The guidon flags flutter gaily in the wind.

SONG
OF
THE BANNER AT DAY-BREAK.

POET.

1  O A new song, a free song,
Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by      voices clearer,
By the wind's voice and that of the drum,
By the banner's voice, and child's voice, and sea's voice,      and father's voice,
Low on the ground and high in the air,
On the ground where father and child stand,
In the upward air where their eyes turn,
Where the banner at day-break is flapping.
2  Words! book-words! what are you?
Words no more, for hearken and see,
My song is there in the open air — and I must sing,
With the banner and pennant a-flapping.
3  I'll weave the chord and twine in,
Man's desire and babe's desire — I'll twine them in, I'll      put in life;
I'll put the bayonet's flashing point — I'll let bullets and      slugs whizz;
I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition,      full of joy;
Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete,
With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

10a

BANNER AND PENNANT.

4 Come up here, bard, bard;
Come up here, soul, soul;
Come up here, dear little child,
To fly in the clouds and winds with us, and play with the measureless light.

CHILD.

5 Father, what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?
And what does it say to me all the while?

FATHER.

6  Nothing, my babe, you see in the sky;
And nothing at all to you it says. But look you, my      babe,
Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you      the money-shops opening;
And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the      streets with goods:
These! ah, these! how valued and toil'd for, these!
How envied by all the earth!

POET.

7  Fresh and rosy red, the sun is mounting high;
On floats the sea in distant blue, careering through its      channels;
On floats the wind over the breast of the sea, setting in      toward land;
The great steady wind from west and west-by-south,
Floating so buoyant, with milk-white foam on the waters.
8  But I am not the sea, nor the red sun;
I am not the wind, with girlish laughter;
Not the immense wind which strengthens — not the      wind which lashes;
Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and      death:

11a

But I am of that which unseen comes and sings, sings,      sings,
Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the      land;
Which the birds know in the woods, mornings and      evenings,
And the shore-sands know, and the hissing wave, and      that banner and pennant,
Aloft there flapping and flapping.

CHILD.

9 O father, it is alive — it is full of people — it has children!
O now it seems to me it is talking to its children!
I hear it — it talks to me — O it is wonderful!
O it stretches — it spreads and runs so fast! O my father,
It is so broad, it covers the whole sky!

FATHER.

10  Cease, cease, my foolish babe,
What you are saying is sorrowful to me — much it dis-     pleases me;
Behold with the rest, again I say — behold not banners      and pennants aloft;
But the well-prepared pavements behold — and mark      the solid-wall'd houses.

BANNER AND PENNANT.

11  Speak to the child, O bard, out of Manhattan;
Speak to our children all, or north or south of Manhat-     tan,
Where our factory-engines hum, where our miners      delve the ground,
Where our hoarse Niagara rumbles, where our prairie-     plows are plowing;
Speak, O bard! point this day, leaving all the rest, to      us over all — and yet we know not why;
For what are we, mere strips of cloth, profiting nothing,
Only flapping in the wind?

12a

POET.

12  I hear and see not strips of cloth alone;
I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging      sentry;
I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men — I hear      LIBERTY!
I hear the drums beat, and the trumpets blowing;
I myself move abroad, swift-rising, flying then;
I use the wings of the land-bird, and use the wings of      the sea-bird, and look down as from a height;
I do not deny the precious results of peace — I see pop-     ulous cities, with wealth incalculable;
I see numberless farms — I see the farmers working in      their fields or barns;
I see mechanics working — I see buildings everywhere      founded, going up, or finish'd;
I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad      tracks, drawn by the locomotives;
I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charles-     ton, New Orleans;
I see far in the west the immense area of grain — I      dwell awhile, hovering;
I pass to the lumber forests of the north, and again      to the southern plantation, and again to Cali-     fornia;
Sweeping the whole, I see the countless profit, the      busy gatherings, earned wages;
See the identity formed out of thirty-six spacious and      haughty States, (and many more to come;)
See forts on the shores of harbors — see ships sailing in      and out;
Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen'd pen-     nant shaped like a sword,
Runs swiftly up, indicating war and defiance — And now      the halyards have rais'd it,
Side of my banner broad and blue — side of my starry      banner,
Discarding peace over all the sea and land.

13a

BANNER AND PENNANT.

13  Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther,      wider cleave!
No longer let our children deem us riches and peace      alone;
We can be terror and carnage also, and are so now;
Not now are we one of these spacious and haughty      States, (nor any five, nor ten;)
Nor market nor depot are we, nor money-bank in the      city;
But these, and all, and the brown and spreading land,      and the mines below, are ours;
And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great      and small;
And the fields they moisten are ours, and the crops and      the fruits are ours;
Bays and channels, and ships sailing in and out, are ours       — and we over all,
Over the area spread below, the three millions of square      miles — the capitals,
The thirty-five millions of people — O bard! in life and      death supreme,
We, even we, from this day flaunt out masterful, high      up above,
Not for the present alone, for a thousand years, chant-     ing through you,
This song to the soul of one poor little child.

CHILD.

14  O my father, I like not the houses;
They will never to me be anything — nor do I like      money;
But to mount up there I would like, O father dear-     that banner I like;
That pennant I would be, and must be.

FATHER.

15 Child of mine, you fill me with anguish;
To be that pennant would be too fearful;

14a

Little you know what it is this day, and henceforth forever;
It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything;
Forward to stand in front of wars — and O, such wars! — what have you to do with them?
With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?

POET.

16  Demons and death then I sing;
Put in all, aye all, will I — sword-shaped pennant for      war, and banner so broad and blue,
And a pleasure new and extatic, and the prattled yearn-     ing of children,
Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land, and the      liquid wash of the sea;
And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling      cedars and pines;
And the whirr of drums, and the sound of soldiers      marching, and the hot sun shining south;
And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my      eastern shore, and my western shore the same;
And all between those shores, and my ever running      Mississippi, with bends and chutes;
And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my      fields of Missouri;
The CONTINENT — devoting the whole identity, without      reserving an atom,
Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all,      and the yield of all.

BANNER AND PENNANT.

17 Aye all! for ever, for all!
From sea to sea, north and south, east and west,
Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole;
No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound,
But, out of the night emerging for good, our voice per- suasive no more,
Croaking like crows here in the wind.

15a

POET.
(Finale.)

18  My limbs, my veins dilate;
The blood of the world has fill'd me full — my theme is      clear at last :
— Banner so broad, advancing out of the night, I sing      you haughty and resolute;
I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd      and blinded;
My sight, my hearing and tongue, are come to me, (a      little child taught me;)
I hear from above, O pennant of war, your ironical call      and demand;
Insensate! insensate! (yet I at any rate chant you,) O      banner!
Not houses of peace are you, nor any nor all their pros-     perity, (if need be, you shall have every one of      those houses to destroy them;
You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, stand-     ing fast, full of comfort, built with money;
May they stand fast, then? Not an hour, unless you,      above them and all, stand fast;)
— O banner! not money so precious are you, nor farm      produce you, nor the material good nutriment,
Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the      ships;
Not the superb ships, with sail-power or steam-power,      fetching and carrying cargoes,
Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues, — But      you, as henceforth I see you,
Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of      stars, (ever-enlarging stars;)
Divider of day-break you, cutting the air, touch'd by      the sun, measuring the sky,
(Passionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little      child,
While others remain busy, or smartly talking, forever      teaching thrift, thrift;)
O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like      a snake, hissing so curious,

16a

Out of reach — an ides only — yet furiously fought for,      risking bloody death — loved by me!
So loved ! O you banner leading the day, with stars      brought from the night!
Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all —      O banner and pennant!
I too leave the rest — great as it is, itis nothing —      house, machines are nothing
— I see them not;
I see but you, O warlike pennant! O Banner so broad,      with stripes, I sing you only,
Flapping up there in the wind.

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 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      wond'rous 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.

17a

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, lisp-     ing cadenzas piano;
But as a strong man, erect, clothed in blue clothes,      advancing, carrying a rifle on your shoulder,
With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands —      with a knife in the belt at your side,
As I heard you shouting loud — your sonorous voice      ringing across the continent;
Your masculine voice, O year, as rising amid the great      cities,
Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the      workmen, the dwellers in Manhattan;
Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois      and Indiana,
Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and de-     scending the Alleghanies;
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,
Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs, clothed      in blue, bearing weapons, robust year;
Heard your determin'd voice, launch'd forth again and      again;
Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round      lipp'd cannon,
I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

18a

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,
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,
To Tennessee and Kentucky — to the Carolinas and      Georgia, to sing theirs,
To Texas, and so along up toward California, to roam      accepted everywhere;
To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum, if need be,)
The idea of all — of the western world, one and insep-     arable,
And then the song of each member of These States.

BEGINNING MY STUDIES.

BEGINNING my studies, the first step pleas'd me so much,
The mere fact, consciousness — these forms — the pow- er of motion,
The least insect or animal — the senses — eyesight;
The first step, I say, aw'd me and pleas'd me so much,
I have never gone, and never wish'd to go, any farther,
But stop and loiter all my life, to sing it in extatic songs.

19a

THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY.

VOLUNTEER OF 1861,
(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,      gentlemen;)
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 yon, 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;
Around them at hand, the well drest friends and the      women;
While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines      down;

20a

Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dal-     lying 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:
The years recede, pavements and stately houses disap-     pear:

21a

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:
Is 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,

22a

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.

23a

20   That, and here, my General's first battle;
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 pass'd 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.

24a

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.

25a

PIONEERS! O PIONEERS!

1

COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes? Pioneers! O pioneers!

2

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

3

O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship,
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost, Pioneers! O pioneers!

4

Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson, Pioneers! O pioneers!

26a

5

All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world;
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O pioneers!

6

We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways, Pioneers! O pioneers!

7

We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines within;
We the surface broad surveying, and the virgin soil up- heaving, Pioneers! O pioneers!

8

Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come, Pioneers! O pioneers!

9

From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the con- tinental blood intervein'd;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern, Pioneers! O pioneers!

27a

10

O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult — I am rapt with love for all, Pioneers! O pioneers!

11

Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, (bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang'd and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon'd mistress, Pioneers! O pioneers!

12

See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging, Pioneers! O pioneers!

13

On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly fill'd,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping, Pioneers! O pioneers!

14

O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill'd, Pioneers! O pioneers!

28a

15

All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us, Pioneers! O pioneers!

16

Life's involv'd and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves, Pioneers! O pioneers!

17

All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying, Pioneers! O pioneers!

18

I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing, Pioneers! O pioneers!

19

Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets;
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams, Pioneers! O pioneers!

29a

20

These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait behind,
We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clearing, Pioneers! O pioneers!

21

O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united, Pioneers! O pioneers!

22

Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep — you have done your work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us, Pioneers! O pioneers!

23

Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the studious;
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame en- joyment, Pioneers! O pioneers!

24

Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock'd and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground, Pioneers! O pioneers!

30a

25

Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discour- aged, nodding on our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious, Pioneers! O pioneers!

26

Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call — hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind;
Swift! to the head of the army! — swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers!

QUICKSAND YEARS THAT WHIRL ME
I KNOW NOT WHITHER.

QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail — lines give way — substan-     ces mock and elude me;
Only the them I sing, the great and strong-possess'd      soul, eludes not;
One's-self, must never give way — that is the final sub-     stance — that out of all is sure;
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, death — what at last      finally remains?
When shows break up, what but One's-Self is sure?

31a

THE DRESSER.

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  O maidens and young men I love, and that love me,
What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sud-     den your talking recals;
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.)

32a

3   But in silence, in dream's projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes      on,
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  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.
5  I onward go, I stop,
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.)
6  On, on I go — (open, doors of time! open, hospital      doors!)

33a

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;
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.)
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 looked on it.
8  I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep;
But a day or two more — for see, the frame all wasted      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.)
11  Thus in silence, in dream's projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hos-     pitals;

34a

The hurt and the 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.)

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D
ASTRONOMER.

WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns      before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add,      divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he      lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

35a

RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS.

1

RISE, O days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier      and fiercer sweep!
Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devour'd      what the earth gave me;
Long I roam'd the woods of the north — long I watch'd      Niagara pouring;
I travel'd the prairies over, and slept on their breast — I      cross'd the Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus;
I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd      out to sea;
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;
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!)
Heard the continuous thunder, as it bellow'd after the      lightning;
Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning, as      sudden and fast amid the din they chased each      other across the sky;
— These, and such as these, I, elate, saw — saw with      wonder, yet pensive and masterful;
All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me;
Yet there with my soul I fed — I fed content, super-     cilious.

36a

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;
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 vengeful stroke!
And do you rise higher than ever yet, O days, O cities!

37a

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,
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 lighting — 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 soli-     tary wilds,
No more on the mountains roam, or sail the stormy sea.

A CHILD'S AMAZE.

SILENT and amazed, even when a little boy,
I remember I heard the preacher every Sunday put God in his statements,
As contending against some being or influence.

38a

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

1

BEAT! beat! drums! — Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows — through doors — burst like a      force of ruthless men,
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;
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.

2

Beat! beat! drums! — Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels in      the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?      No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers' bargains by day — no brokers or specu-     lators — Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt      to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case      before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder      blow.

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;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie      awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums — so loud      you bugles blow.

39a

COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER.

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, 'tis autumn;
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.
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 white hair, nor adjust      her cap.

40a

6   Open the envelope quickly;
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.
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.
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;
The only son is dead.
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.

41a

CITY OF SHIPS.

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 façades of mar-     ble and iron!
Proud and passionate city! mettlesome, mad, extrava-     gant city!
Spring up, O city! not for peace alone, but be indeed      yourself, warlike!
Fear not! submit to no models but your own, O city!
Behold me! incarnate me, as I have incarnated you!
I have rejected nothing you offer'd me — whom you      adopted, I have adopted;
Good or bad, I never question you — I love all — I do      not condemn anything;
I chant and celebrate all that is yours — yet peace no      more;
In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is      mine;
War, red war, is my song through your streets, O city!

MOTHER AND BABE.

I SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother;
The sleeping mother and babe — hush'd, I study them long and long.

42a

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,

43a

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,
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.

BATHED IN WAR'S PERFUME.

BATHED in war's perfume — delicate flag!
O to hear you call the sailors and the soldiers! flag like      a beautiful woman!
O to hear the tramp, tramp, of a million answering men!      O the ships they arm with joy!
O to see you leap and beckon from the tall masts of      ships!
O to see you peering down on the sailors on the decks!
Flag like the eyes of women.

44a

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;
At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in      danger of bleeding to death, (he is shot in the ab-     domen;)
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;

45a

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, Full 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, as ever in darkness marching, on      in the ranks,
The unknown road still marching.

LONG, TOO LONG, O LAND.

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 conceived what your      children en-masse really are?)

46a

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,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there,      untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen      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.

A FARM PICTURE.

THROUGH the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding.

47a

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 flowers,      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;
Give me solitude — give me Nature — give me again,      O Nature, your primal sanities!
— These, demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless      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;

48a

(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 Manhattan!
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching — give      me the sound of the trumpets and drums!
(The soldiers in companies or regiments — some, starting      away, flush'd and reckless;
Some, their time up, returning, with thinn'd ranks —      young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing      nothing;)
— 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;

49a

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.

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 themselves      for one.
4  One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's com-     rade;
From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another an Ore-     gonese, shall be friends triune,
More precious to each other than all the riches of the      earth.

50a

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.
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.

DID YOU ASK DULCET RHYMES FROM ME?

DID YOU ask dulcet rhymes from me?
Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow,      to understand?
Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to      understand — nor am I now;
— What to such as you, anyhow, such a poet as I?       — therefore leave my works,
And go lull yourself with what you can understand;
For I lull nobody — and you will never understand me

51a

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 indiffer-     ent, 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,
The proud black ships of Manhattan, arriving, some      fill'd with immigrants, some from the isthmus      with cargoes of gold;
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      passed 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,

52a

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 unearth-     ly 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?

THE TORCH.

On my northwest coast in the midst of the night, a      fishermen's group stands watching;
Out on the lake, expanding before them, others are      spearing salmon;
The canoe, a dim and shadowy thing, moves across the      black water,
Bearing a Torch a-blaze at the prow.

53a

YEARS OF THE UNPERFORM'D.

YEARS of the unperform'd! your horizon rises — I see it      parting away for more August dramas;
I see not America only — I see not only Liberty's nation,      but other nations preparing;
I see tremendous entrances and exits — I see new com-     binations — I see the solidarity of races;
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the      world's stage;
(Have the old forces played their parts? are the acts      suitable to them closed?)
I see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious, and      very haughty, with Law by her side, both issuing      forth against the idea of caste;
— What historic denouements are these we so rapidly      approach?
I see men marching and countermarching by swift mil      lions;
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies      broken;
I see the landmarks of European kings removed;
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all      others give way;)
Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day;
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more      like a God;
Lo, how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no      rest;
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere — he col-     onizes the Pacific, the archipelagoes;
With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the news-     paper, the wholesale engines of war,
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he inter-     links all geography, all lands;

54a

— What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of      you, passing under the seas?
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but      one heart to the globe?
Is humanity forming, en-masse? — for lo! tyrants trem-     ble, crowns grow dim;
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a gen-     eral divine war;
No one knows what will happen next — such portents      fill the days and nights;
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vain-     ly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms;
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes      around me;
This incredible rush and heat — this strange extactic      fever of dreams, O years!
Your dreams, O years, how they penetrate through me!      (I know not whether I sleep or wake!)
The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring      in shadow behind me,
The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, ad-     vance upon me.

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 myself:
Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baf-     fled?
And sullen hymns of defeat?

55a

THE VETERAN'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 mys-     tic 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 my busy brain      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 selects      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;)
I breathe the suffocating smoke — then the flat clouds      hover low, concealing all;

56a

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.

O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY.

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.

57a

CAMPS OF GREEN.

1  NOT alone our camps of white, O soldiers,
When, as order'd forward, after a long march,
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessens, we halt      for the night;
Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack,      dropping asleep in our tracks;
Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up begin      to sparkle;
Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through      the dark,
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety;
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly      beating the drums,
We rise up refresh'd, the night and sleep pass'd over,      and resume our journey,
Or proceed to battle.
2  Lo! the camps of the tents of green,
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of      war keep filling,
With a mystic army, (is it too order'd forward? is it too      only halting awhile,
Till night and sleep pass over?)
3  Now in those camps of green — in their tents dotting      the world;
In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them —      in the old and young,
Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moon-     light, content and silent there at last,
Behold the mighty bivouac-field, and waiting-camp of      us and ours and all,

58a

Of our corps and generals all, and the President over the      corps and generals all,
And of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the      ranks we fight,
(There without hatred we shall all meet.)
4  For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place
     in the bivouac-camps of green;
But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for      the countersign,
Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.

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, abrupt,      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.

59a

HYMN OF DEAD SOLDIERS.

1  ONE breath, O my silent soul,
A perfum'd thought — no more I ask, for the sake of all      dead soldiers.
2  Buglers off in my armies!
At present I ask not you to sound;
Not at the head of my cavalry, all on their spirited      horses,
With their sabres drawn and glist'ning, and carbines      clanking by their thighs — (ah, my brave horse-     men!
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy      and pride,
With all the perils, were yours!)
3  Nor you drummers — neither at reveille, at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the camp — nor even the      muffled beat for a burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my      warlike drums.
4  But aside from these, and the crowd's hurrahs, and      the land's congratulations,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the      the rest, and voiceless,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all      dead soldiers.
5  Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather      closer yet:
Draw close, but speak not.

60a

6   Phantoms, welcome, divine and tender!
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my compan-     ions;
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.
7  Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet      are the musical voices sounding!
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.
8  Dearest comrades! all now is over;
But love is not over — and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising — up from foetor      arising.
9  Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers.
10  Perfume all! make all wholesome!
O love! O chant! solve all with the last chemistry.
11  Give me exhaustless — make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go,
For the sake of all dead soldiers.

THE SHIP.

Lo! THE unbounded sea!
On its breast a Ship, spreading all her sails — an ample      Ship, carrying even her moonsails;
The pennant is flying aloft, as she speeds, she      speeds so stately — below, emulous waves press      forward,
They surround the Ship, with shining curving motions,      and foam.

61a

A BROADWAY PAGEANT.
(RECEPTION JAPANESE EMBASSY, JUNE 16, 1860.)

1  OVER sea, hither from Niphon,
Courteous, the Princes of Asia, swart-cheek'd princes,
First-comers, guests, two-sworded princes,
Lesson-giving princes, leaning back in their open ba-     rouches, bare-headed, impassive,
This day they ride through Manhattan.
2  Libertad!
I do not know whether others behold what I behold,
In the procession, along with the Princes of Asia, the      errand-bearers,
Bringing up the rear, hovering above, around, or in the      ranks marching;
But I will sing you a song of what I behold, Libertad.
3  When million-footed Manhattan, unpent, descends to      its pavements;
When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the      proud roar I love;
When the round-mouth'd guns, out of the smoke and      smell I love, spit their salutes;
When the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me —      when heaven-clouds canopy my city with a      delicate thin haze;
When, gorgeous, the countless straight stems, the for-     ests at the wharves, thicken with colors;
When every ship, richly drest, carries her flag at the      peak;
When pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the      windows;

62a

When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers      and foot-standers — when the mass is densest;
When the facades of the houses are alive with people —      when eyes gaze, riveted, tens of thousands at a      time;
When the guests from the islands advance — when the      pageant moves forward, visible;
When the summons is made — when the answer that      waited thousands of years, answers;
I too, arising, answering, descend to the pavements,      merge with the crowd, and gaze with them.
4  Superb-faced Manhattan!
Comrade Americanos! — to us, then, at last, the Orient      comes.
5  To us, my city,
Where our tall-topt marble and iron beauties range on      opposite sides — to walk in the space between,
To-day our Antipodes comes.
6  The Originatress comes,
The land of Paradise — land of the Caucasus — the nest      of birth,
The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the      race of eld,
Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with      passion,
Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments,
With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering      eyes.
The race of Brahma comes!
7  See, my cantabile! these, and more, are flashing to us      from the procession;
As it moves, changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves,      changing, before us.
8  Not the errand-bearing princes, nor the tann'd Japa-     nee only;

63a

Lithe and silent, the Hindoo appears — the whole Asiatic      continent itself appears — the Past, the dead,
The murky night-morning of wonder and fable, inscrta-     ble,
The envelop'd mysteries, the old and unknown hive-     bees,
The North — the sweltering South — Assyria — the      Hebrews — the Ancient of ancients,
Vast desolated cities — the gliding Present — all of      these, and more, are in the pageant-procession.
9  Geography, the world, is in it;
The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast      beyond;
The coast you, henceforth, are facing — you Libertad!      from your Western golden shores;
The countries there, with their populations — the mil-     lions en-masse, are curiously here;
The swarming market places — the temples, with idols      ranged along the sides, or at the end — bonze,      brahmin, and lama;
The mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisher-     man;
The singing-girl and the dancing-girl — the ecstatic      person — the divine Buddha;
The secluded Emperors — Confucius himself — the      great poets and heroes — the warriors, the castes,      all,
Trooping up, crowding from all directions — from the      Altay mountains,
From Thibet — from the four winding and far-flowing      rivers of China,
From the Southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental      islands — from Malaysia;
These, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show      forth to me, and are seiz'd by me,
And I am seiz'd by them, and friendlily held by them,
Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves      and for you.

64a

10   For I too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this      pageant;
I am the chanter — I chant aloud over the pageant;
I chant the world on my Western Sea;
I chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in      the sky;
I chant the new empire, grander than any before — As      in a vision it comes to me;
I chant America, the Mistress — I chant a greater su-     premacy;
I chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in      time, on those groups of sea-islands;
I chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the ar-     chipelagoes;
I chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind;
I chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having      done its work — races, reborn, refresh'd;
Lives, works, resumed — The object I know not — but      the old, the Asiatic, resumed, as it must be,
Commencing from this day, surrounded by the world.
11  And you, Libertad of the world!
You shall sit in the middle, well-pois'd, thousands of      years;
As to-day, from one side, the Princes of Asia come to      you;
As to-morrow, from the other side, the Queen of Eng-     land sends her eldest son to you.
12  The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed,
The ring is circled, the journey is done;
The box-lid is but perceptibly open'd — nevertheless the      perfume pours copiously out of the whole box.
13  Young Libertad!
With the venerable Asia, the all-mother,
Be considerate with her, now and ever, hot Libertad —      for you are all;

65a

Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now      sending messages over the archipelagoes to you;
Bend your proud neck low for once, young Libertad.
14  Were the children straying westward so long? so      wide the tramping?
Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward      from Paradise so long?
Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the      while unknown, for you, for reasons?
They are justified — they are accomplish'd — they shall      now be turn'd the other way also, to travel to-     ward you thence;
They shall now also march obediently eastward, for      your sake, Libertad.

FLAG OF STARS, THICK-SPRINKLED
BUNTING.

FLAG of stars! thick-sprinkled bunting!
Long yet your road, fateful flag! — long yet your road,      and lined with bloody death!
For the prize I see at issue, at last is the world!
All its ships and shores I see, interwoven with your      threads, greedy banner!
— Dream'd again the flags of kings, highest borne, to      flaunt unrivall'd?
O hasten, flag of man! O with sure and steady step,      passing highest flags of kings,
Walk supreme to the heavens, mighty symbol — run up      above them all,
Flag of stars! thick sprinkled bunting!

66a

OLD IRELAND.

1  FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mother,
Once a queen — now lean and tatter'd, seated on the      ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoul-     ders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent — she too long silent — mourning her shroud-     ed hope and heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because      most full of love.
2  Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground,      with forehead between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white      hair, so dishevel'd;
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion — the heir, the son you love, was not      really dead;
The Lord is not dead — he is risen again, young and      strong, in another country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the      grave,
What you wept for, was translated, pass'd from the      grave,
The winds favor'd, and the sea sail'd it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.

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.

67a

OUT OF THE ROLLING OCEAN, THE CROWD.

1

OUT of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel'd a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.

2

(Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love — we are not so      much separated;
Behold the great rondure — the cohesion of all, how per-     fect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separ-     ate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse — yet cannot carry      us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient — a little space — know you, I salute      the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)

WORLD, TAKE GOOD NOTICE.

WORLD, take good notice, silver stars fading,
Milky hue ript, weft of white detaching,
Coals thirty-six, baleful and burning,
Scarlet, significant, hands off warning,
Now and henceforth flaunt from these shores.

68a

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 hemmed 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.

OTHERS MAY PRAISE WHAT THEY LIKE.

OTHERS may praise what they like;
But I, from the banks of the running Missouri, praise nothing, in art, or aught else,
Till it has breathed well the atmosphere of this river — also the western prairie-scent,
And fully exudes it again.

SOLID, IRONICAL, ROLLING ORB.

SOLID, ironical, rolling orb!
Master of all, and matter of fact! — at last I accept your terms;
Bringing to practical, vulgar tests, of all my ideal dreams,
And of me, as lover and hero.

69a

HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TO-DAY. A. L. BURIED APRIL 19, 1865.

1  HUSH'D be the camps to-day;
And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;
And each, with musing soul retire, to celebrate,
Our dear commander's death.
2  No more for him life's stormy conflicts;
Nor victory, nor defeat — No more time's dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.
3  But sing, poet, in our name;
Sing of the love we bore him — because you, dweller in      camps, know it truly.
4  Sing, to the lower'd coffin there;
Sing, with the shovel'd clods that fill the grave — a      verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

WEAVE IN, WEAVE IN, MY HARDY LIFE.

WEAVE in! weave in, my hardy life!
Weave, weave a soldier strong and full, for great cam-     paigns to come;
Weave in red blood! weave sinews in, like ropes! the      senses, sight weave in!
Weave lasting sure! weave day and night the weft, the      warp! incessant weave! tire not!
(We know not what the use, O life! nor know the aim,      the end — nor really aught we know;
But know the work, the need goes on, and shall go      on — the death-envelop'd march of peace as well      as war, goes on;)
For great campaigns of peace the same, the wiry      threads to weave;
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.

70a

TURN O LIBERTAD.

TURN, O Libertad, no more doubting;
Turn from lands retrospective, recording proofs of the      past;
From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the      past;
From the chants of the feudal world — the triumphs of      kings, slavery, caste;
Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come —      give up that backward world;
Leave to the singers of hitherto — give them the trailing      past:
But what remains, remains for singers for you — wars      to come are for you;
(Lo! how the wars of the past have duly inured to you       — and the wars of the present shall also inure:)
— Then turn, and be not alarm'd, O Libertad — turn      your undying face,
To where the future, greater than all the past,
Is swiftly, surely preparing for you.

BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE.

I SEE before me now, a traveling army halting;
Below, a fertile valley spread, with barns, and the orch-     ards 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 with the eternal stars.

71a

PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING, I HEARD
THE MOTHER OF ALL.

PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,
Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the      battle-fields gazing;
As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she      stalk'd:
Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried — I charge you,      lose not my sons! lose not an atom;
And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear      blood;
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above      lightly,
And all you essences of soil and growth — and you, O      my rivers' depths;
And you mountain sides — and the woods where my      dear children's blood, trickling, redden'd;
And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all      future trees,
My dead absorb — my young men's beautiful bodies ab-     sorb — and their precious, precious, precious      blood;
Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give      me, many a year hence,
In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centu-     ries hence;
In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my      darlings — give my immortal heroes;
Exhale me them centuries hence — breathe me their      breath — let not an atom be lost;
O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an      aroma sweet!
Exhale them perennial, sweet death, years, centuries      hence.

72a

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, fortune, inure not to me — yet      there are two things inure to me;
I have nourish'd the wounded, and sooth'd many a      dying soldier;
And at intervals I have strung together a few songs,
Fit for war, and the life of the camp.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

WALT WHITMAN'S DRUM -TAPS. New-York. 1865.

CONTENTS.

DRUM-TAPS.

SHUT NOT YOUR DOORS TO ME PROUD LIBRARIES.

CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD.

SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAY-BREAK.

POET.

BANNER AND PENNANT.

CHILD.

FATHER.

POET.

CHILD.

FATHER.

BANNER AND PENNANT.

POET.

BANNER AND PENNANT.

CHILD.

FATHER.

POET.

BANNER AND PENNANT.

POET. (Finale.)

BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME.">

1861.

FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD.

BEGINNING MY STUDIES.

THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY.

VOLUNTEER OF 1861, (At Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian.)

THE CENTENARIAN.

TERMINUS.

PIONEERS! O PIONEERS!

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

QUICKSAND YEARS THAT WHIRL ME I KNOW NOT WHITHER.

THE DRESSER.

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER.

RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS.

1

2

3

A CHILD'S AMAZE.

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

1

2

3

COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER.

CITY OF SHIPS.

MOTHER AND BABE.

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT.

BATHED IN WAR'S PERFUME.

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

LONG, TOO LONG, O LAND.

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

A FARM PICTURE.

GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN.

1

WALT WHITMAN'S
DRUM -TAPS.
New-York.
1865.

SHUT NOT YOUR DOORS TO ME
PROUD LIBRARIES.

SONG
OF
THE BANNER AT DAY-BREAK.

POET.
(Finale.)

VOLUNTEER OF 1861,
(At Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian.)

QUICKSAND YEARS THAT WHIRL ME
I KNOW NOT WHITHER.

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D
ASTRONOMER.

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.

GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT
SUN.

OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC
A VOICE.

YEAR OF METEORS.
(1859-60.)

YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D
BENEATH ME.

AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S
WOODS.

A BROADWAY PAGEANT.
(RECEPTION JAPANESE EMBASSY, JUNE 16, 1860.)

FLAG OF STARS, THICK-SPRINKLED
BUNTING.

PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING, I HEARD
THE MOTHER OF ALL.