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DRUM-TAPS
By Walt Whitman
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE
EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
FROM PAUMANOK STARTING I FLY LIKE A BIRD
SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK
RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS
VIRGINIA--THE WEST
CITY OF SHIPS
THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY
CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD
BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN SIDE
AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH
BY THE BIVOUAC'S FITFUL FLAME
COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER
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 DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM
AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS
NOT THE PILOT
YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME
THE WOUND-DRESSER
LONG, TOO LONG AMERICA
GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN
DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS
OVER THE CARNAGE ROSE PROPHETIC A VOICE
I SAW OLD GENERAL AT BAY
THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION
ETHIOPIA SALUTING THE COLOURS
NOT YOUTH PERTAINS TO ME
RACE OF VETERANS
WORLD TAKE GOOD NOTICE
O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY
LOOK DOWN FAIR MOON
RECONCILIATION
HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE
AS I LAY WITH MY HEAD IN YOUR LAP CAMERADO
DELICATE CLUSTER
TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN
LO, VICTRESS ON THE PEAKS
SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE
ADIEU TO A SOLDIER
TURN O LIBERTAD
TO THE LEAVEN'D SOIL THEY TROD
NOTE
The Introduction is reprinted, by permission, from _The Times_ Literary
Supplement of April 1, 1915.
INTRODUCTION
When the first days of August loured over the world, time seemed to
stand still. A universal astonishment and confusion fell, as upon a flock
of sheep perplexed by strange dogs. But now, though never before was a
St. Lucy's Day so black with "absence, darkness, death," Christmas is
gone. Spring comes swiftly, the almond trees flourish. Easter will soon
be here. Life breaks into beauty again and we realize that man may bring
hell itself into the world, but that Nature ever patiently waits to be
his natural paradise. Yet still a kind of instinctive blindness blots out
the prospect of the future. Until the long horror of the war is gone from
our minds, we shall be able to think of nothing that has not for its
background a chaotic darkness. Like every obsession, it gnaws at thought,
follows us into our dreams and returns with the morning. But there have
been other wars. And humanity, after learning as best it may their brutal
lesson, has survived them. Just as the young soldier leaves home behind
him and accepts hardship and danger as to the manner born, so, when he
returns again, life will resume its old quiet wont. Nature is not idle
even in the imagination. It is man's salvation to forget no less than it
is his salvation to remember. And it is wise even in the midst of the
conflict to look back on those that are past and to prepare for the
returning problems of the future.
When Whitman wrote his "Democratic Vistas," the long embittered war
between the Northern and Southern States of America was a thing only of
yesterday. It is a headlong amorphous production--a tangled meadow of
"leaves of grass" in prose. But it is as cogent to-day as it was when it
was written:
To the ostent of the senses and eyes [he writes], the influences
which stamp the world's history are wars, uprisings, or downfalls
of dynasties.... These, of course, play their part; yet, it may
be, a single new thought, imagination, abstract principle ... put
in shape by some great literatus, and projected among mankind,
may duly cause changes, growths, removals, greater than the
longest and bloodiest war, or the most stupendous merely
political, dynastic, or commercial overturn.
The literatus who realized this had his own message in mind. And yet,
justly. For those who might point to the worldly prosperity and material
comforts of his country, and ask, Are not these better indeed than any
utterances even of greatest rhapsodic, artist, or literatus? he has his
irrefutable answer. He surveys the New York of 1870, "its façades of
marble and iron, of original grandeur and elegance of design," etc., in
his familiar catalogical jargon, and shutting his eyes to its glow and
grandeur, inquires in return, Are there indeed _men_ here worthy the
name? Are there perfect women? Is there a pervading atmosphere of
beautiful manners? Are there arts worthy freedom and a rich people? Is
there a great moral and religious civilization--the only justification of
a great material one? We ourselves in good time shall have to face and to
answer these questions. They search our keenest hopes of the peace that
is coming. And we may be fortified perhaps by the following queer proof
of history repeating itself:
Never, in the Old World, was thoroughly upholster'd exterior
appearance and show, mental and other, built entirely on the idea
of caste, and on the sufficiency of mere outside
acquisition--never were glibness, verbal intellect, more the
test, the emulation--more loftily elevated as head and sample--
than they are on the surface of our Republican States this day.
The writers of a time hint the mottoes of its gods. The word of
the modern, say these voices, is the word Culture.
Whitman had no very tender regard for the Germany of his time. He fancied
that the Germans were like the Chinese, only less graceful and refined
and more brutish. But neither had he any particular affection for any
relic of Europe. "Never again will we trust the moral sense or abstract
friendliness of a single _Government_ of the Old World." He accepted
selections from its literature for the new American Adam. But even its
greatest poets were not America's, and though he might welcome even
Juvenal, it was for use and not for worship. We have to learn, he
insists, that the best culture will always be that of the manly and
courageous instincts and loving perceptions, and of self-respect. In our
children rests every hope and promise, and therefore in their mothers.
"Disengage yourselves from parties.... These savage and wolfish parties
alarm me.... Hold yourself judge and master over all of them." Only faith
can save us, the faith in ourselves and in our fellow-men which is of the
true faith in goodness and in God. The idea of the mass of men, so fresh
and free, so loving and so proud, filled this poet with a singular awe.
Passionately he pleads for the dignity of the common people. It is the
average man of a land that is important. To win the people back to a
proud belief and confidence in life, to rapture in this wonderful world,
to love and admiration--this was his burning desire. I demand races of
orbic bards, he rhapsodizes, sweet democratic despots, to dominate and
even destroy. The Future! Vistas! The throes of birth are upon us.
Allons, camarado!
He could not despair. "Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of
the baffled?" he asks himself in "Drum-Taps." But wildest shuttlecock of
criticism though he is, he has never yet been charged with looking only
on the dark side of things. Once, he says, "Once, before the war (alas! I
dare not say how many times the mood has come!), I too, was fill'd with
doubt and gloom." His part in it soothed, mellowed, deepened his great
nature. He had himself witnessed such misery, cruelty, and abomination as
it is best just now, perhaps, not to read about. One fact alone is
enough; that over fifty thousand Federal soldiers perished of starvation
in Southern prisons. Malarial fever contracted in camps and hospitals had
wrecked his health. During 1862-65 he visited, he says, eighty to a
hundred thousand sick and wounded soldiers, comprehending all, slighting
none. Rebel or compatriot, it made no difference. "I loved the young
man," he cries again and again. Pity and fatherliness were in his face,
for his heart was full of them. Mr. Gosse has described "the old Gray" as
he saw him in 1884, in his bare, littered sun-drenched room in Camden,
shared by kitten and canary:
He sat with a very curious pose of the head thrown backward, as
if resting it one vertebra lower down the spinal column than
other people do, and thus tilting his face a little upwards. With
his head so poised and the whole man fixed in contemplation of
the interlocutor he seemed to pass into a state of absolute
passivity ... the glassy eyes half closed, the large knotted
hands spread out before him. He resembled, in fact, nothing so
much as "a great old grey Angora Tom," alert in repose, serenely
blinking under his combed waves of hair, with eyes inscrutably
dreaming.... As I stood in dull, deserted Mickle Street once
more, my heart was full of affection for this beautiful old man
... this old rhapsodist in his empty room, glorified by patience
and philosophy.
Whitman was then sixty-five. In a portrait of thirty years before there
is just a wraith of that feline dream, perhaps, but it is a face of a
rare grace and beauty that looks out at us, of a profound kindness and
compassion. And, in the eyes, not so much penetration as visionary
absorption. Such was the man to whom nothing was unclean, nothing too
trivial (except "pale poetlings lisping cadenzas _piano_," who then
apparently thronged New York) to take to himself. Intensest,
indomitablest of individualists, he exulted in all that appertains to
that forked radish, Man. This contentious soul of mine, he exclaims
ecstatically; Viva: the attack! I have been born the same as the war was
born; I lull nobody, and you will never understand me: maybe I am
non-literary and un-decorous.... I have written impromptu, and shall let
it all go at that. Let me at least be human! Human, indeed, he was, a
tender, all-welcoming host of Everyman, of his idolized (if somewhat
overpowering) American democracy. Man in the street, in his swarms, poor
crazed faces in the State asylum, prisoners in Sing Sing, prostitute,
whose dead body reminded him not of a lost soul, but only of a sad,
forlorn, and empty house--it mattered not; he opened his heart to them,
one and all. "I see beyond each mark that wonder, a kindred soul. O the
bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend."
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and drums give you music,
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.
"Yours for you," he exclaims, welding in a phrase his unparalleled
egotism, his beautiful charity, "yours for you, who ever you are, as mine
for me." It is the essence of philosophy and of religion, for all the
wonders of heaven and earth are significant "only because of the Me in
the centre."
This was the secret of his tender, unassuming ministrations. He had none
of that shrinking timidity, that fear of intrusion, that uneasiness in
the presence of the tragic and the pitiful, which so often numb and
oppress those who would willingly give themselves and their best to the
needy and suffering, but whose intellect misgives them. He was that
formidable phenomenon, a dreamer of action. But he possessed a sovran
good sense. Food and rest and clean clothes were his scrupulous
preparation for his visits. He always assumed as cheerful an appearance
as possible. Armed with bright new five-cent and ten-cent bills (the
wounded, he found, were often "broke," and the sight of a little money
"helped their spirits"), with books and stationery and tobacco, for one a
twist of good strong green tea, for another a good home-made
rice-pudding, or a jar of sparkling but innocent blackberry and cherry
syrup, a small bottle of horse-radish pickle, or a large handsome apple,
he would "make friends." "What I have I also give you," he cried from the
bottom of his grieved, tempestuous heart. He would talk, or write
letters--passionate love-letters, too--or sit silent, in mute and tender
kindness. "Long, long, I gazed ... 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." And how many a mother must have blessed the stranger who
could bring such last news of a son as this: "And now like many other
noble and good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has
yielded up his young life at the very outset in her service. Such things
are gloomy--yet there is a text, 'God doeth all things well'--the meaning
of which, after due time, appears to the soul." It is only love that can
comfort the loving.
He forced nothing on these friends of a day, so many of them near their
last farewell. A poor wasted young man asks him to read a chapter in the
New Testament, and Whitman chooses that which describes Christ's
Crucifixion. He "ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ
rose again. I read very slowly, for he was feeble. It pleased him very
much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd religion.
I said 'Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, yet maybe, it is the
same thing.'" This is only one of many such serene intimacies in
Whitman's experiences of the war. Through them we reach to an
understanding of a poet who chose not signal and beautiful episodes out
of the past, nor the rare moments of existence, for theme, but took all
life, within and around him in vast bustling America, for his poetic
province. Like a benign barbaric sun he surveys the world, ever at noon.
I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there, he cries in the "Song of Myself."
I do not despise you priests, all times, the world over.... He could not
despise anything, not even his fellow-poets, because he himself was
everything. His verse sometimes seems mere verbiage, but it is always a
higgledy-piggledy, Santa Claus bagful of _things_. And he could penetrate
to the essential reality. He tells in his "Drum-Taps" how one daybreak he
arose in camp, and saw three still forms stretched out in the eastern
radiance, how with light fingers he just lifted the blanket from each
cold face in turn: the first elderly, gaunt, and grim--Who are you, my
dear comrade? The next with cheeks yet blooming--Who are you, sweet boy?
The third--Young man, I think I know you. I think this face is the face
of the Christ Himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again
he lies.
True poetry focuses experience, not merely transmits it. It must redeem
it for ever from transitoriness and evanescence. Whitman incontinently
pours experience out in a Niagara-like cataract. But in spite of his
habitual publicity he was at heart of a "shy, brooding, impassioned
devotional type"; in spite of his self-conscious, arrogant virility, he
was to the end of his life an entranced child. He came into the world,
saw and babbled. His deliberate method of writing could have had no other
issue. A subject would occur to him, a kind of tag. He would scribble it
down on a scrap of paper and drop it into a drawer. Day by day this first
impulse would evoke fresh "poemets," until at length the accumulation was
exhaustive. Then he merely gutted his treasury and the ode was complete.
It was only when sense and feeling attained a sort of ecstasy that he
succeeded in distilling the true essence that is poetry and in enstopping
it in a crystal phial of form.
The prose of his "Specimen Days," indeed, is often nearer to poetry than
his verse:
Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.... I often come and
sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as
softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so
handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time
as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without
the least start awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady
look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier--one long,
clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd back and went into
his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the
heart of the stranger that hover'd near.
The western star, Venus, in the earlier hours of evening has
never been so large, so clear; it seems as if it told something,
as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity, with us Americans.
The sky dark blue, the transparent night, the planets, the
moderate west wind, the elastic temperature, the miracle of that
great star, and the young and swelling moon swimming in the west,
suffused the soul. Then I heard slow and clear the deliberate
notes of a bugle come up out of the silence ... firm and
faithful, floating along, rising, falling leisurely, with here
and there a long-drawn note.... sounding tattoo.
"A steady rain, dark and thick and warm," he writes again, two days after
Gettysburg. "The cavalry camp is a ceaseless field of observation to me.
This forenoon there stood the horses, tether'd together, dripping,
steaming, chewing their hay. The men emerge from their tents, dripping
also. The fires are half-quench'd." There is a poetic poise in this
brief, vivid statement, apart from its bare economy of means. It is the
lump awaiting the leaven no less than is "Cavalry Crossing a Ford." To
this supreme spectator an apple orchard in May, even the White House in
moonlight, no more and no less than these battle-scenes, rendered up
their dignity, life, and beauty, their true human significance. But in
"Drum-Taps" the witness is not always so satisfactory. The secret has
evaporated in the effort to _make_ poetry, or half-consciously to inject
a moral, to play the Universal Bard. There creeps into the words a tinge
of the raw and the grotesque. The poet has the look of a cowboy off the
stage, tanned with grease-paint. But again and again the secret creeps
back and some lovely emanation of poetry is added to it:
Look down fair moon and bathe this scene,
Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen,
purple,
On the dead on their backs with arms toss'd wide,
Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon.
Or this, called "Reconciliation":
Word over all, beautiful as the sky,
Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be
utterly lost,
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash
again, and ever again, this soil'd world;
For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead,
I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--I draw
near,
Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the
coffin.
The bonds of rhyme shackled him, deprived him of more than freedom. He is
like a wild bird that suddenly perceives the bars of its small cage
across the blue of the sky. And yet the finer his poems are, the nearer
they approach to definite rhythmical design. One has only to compare "O
Captain! my Captain!" with "Hushed be the Camps To-day" to perceive this
curious paradox. They are both of them memories of his beloved Lincoln,
whom he had many times seen, with that peculiarly close and transatlantic
curiosity of his, riding at a jog-trot, on a good-sized, easy-going grey
horse, with his escort of yellow-striped cavalry behind him, through the
streets of Washington--dressed in black, somewhat rusty and dusty, with a
black, stiff hat, almost as ordinary in attire as the commonest man. That
heroic face, too, he had pierced; and caught from it the deep, subtle,
indirect expression, that only the long-gone master-painters of the Old
World could have seized and immortalized. And in yet another memory of
this great American Whitman attains to his best and highest, "When Lilacs
Last in the Doorway Bloom'd." It is one of the most beautiful of poems,
of the purest intuition, of a consummate, if unconscious, artistry. Whose
voice is it that rings and echoes, now low and tender, now solemn and
desolate, now clear, full, victorious, out of its cloistral
solitude--that of the mourner himself, of all-heedfull, heedless Nature,
of the immortal soul of man, or just a bird, the shy and hidden, sweet,
small hermit thrush? The last division of his life's work--his fond Epic,
his cosmic "inventory"--as Whitman planned it, was to be devoted to the
chaunting of songs of death and immortality. The soldier to whom he read
of Christ's Resurrection talked of death to him, and said he did not fear
it. He talked to a man who did not enjoy religion in the way a Christian
means, to whom the mystery of Easter is an all-sufficing "reliance." But
Whitman not only did not fear death. The thought of it was to him the
strangest of raptures, the reverie of a child dreaming of a distant
mother, soon to come again. Death and immortality were but two aspects of
the same blessed hope to this man, who poured out his life in a turgid
fount of ecstatic joy in living:
... And I saw askant the armies,
I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I
saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody,
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence),
And the staffs all splintered and broken.
I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them,
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought,
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not,
The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd,
And the wives and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd,
And the armies that remain'd suffer'd....
_Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the night, in the day, to all, to each,
Sooner or later delicate death._
_Prais'd be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death._
_Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come
unfalteringly._
DRUM-TAPS
FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE.
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 prelude, songs of
soldiers,)
How Manhattan drum-taps led.
Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading,
Forty years as a pageant, still 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 clinch'd hand the pavement.
A shock electric, the night sustain'd it,
Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads.
From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the doorways,
Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming.
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 precipitation,)
The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the
court,
The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing
the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs,
The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all
leaving;
Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm,
The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their
accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully,
Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musketbarrels,
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 cover'd with dust!)
The blood of the city up--arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere,
The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the
public buildings and stores,
The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his
mother,
(Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain
him,)
The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, 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 medicines,
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.
Mannahatta a-march--and it's O to sing it well!
It's O for a manly life in the camp.
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 now besides powder and wadding.)
And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta,
Old matron of 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.
EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE.
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 lisping 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 descending 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.
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
Beat! beat! drums!--blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force,
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, ploughing his field or gathering
his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums--so shrill you bugles blow.
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 speculators--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.
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 entreaties,
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.
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 Michigan 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 inseparable,
And then the song of each member of these States.
SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK.
_Poet._
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 daybreak is flapping.
Words! bookwords! 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.
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,
(As one carrying a symbol and menace far into the future,
Crying with trumpet voice, _Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!_)
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.
_Pennant._
Come up here, bard, bard,
Come up here, soul, soul,
Come up here, dear little child,
To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless
light.
_Child._
Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?
And what does it say to me all the while?
_Father._
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._
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 or west-by-south,
Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters.
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,
But I am 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._
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._
Cease, cease, my foolish babe,
What you are saying is sorrowful to me, much it displeases 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._
Speak to the child O bard out of Manhattan,
To our children all, or north or south of Manhattan,
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?
_Poet._
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 populous 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 finished,
I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn by
the locomotives,
I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, 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 California;
Sweeping the whole I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings,
earn'd wages,
See the Identity formed out of thirty-eight 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 pennant 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.
_Banner and Pennant._
Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave!
No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone,
We may be terror and carnage, and are so now,
Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any
five, nor ten,)
Nor market nor depot 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, and the crops and the fruits are ours,
Bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours--while we
over all,
Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square
miles, the capitals,
The forty millions of people,--O bard! in life and death supreme,
We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above,
Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you,
This song to the soul of one poor little child.
_Child._
O my father I like not the houses,
They will never to me be any thing, 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._
Child of mine you fill me with anguish,
To be that pennant would be too fearful,
Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever,
It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy every thing,
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?
_Banner._
Demons and death then I sing,
Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war,
And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of
children,
Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the
sea,
And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke,
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,
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 persuasive no more,
Croaking like crows here in the wind.
_Poet_.
My limbs, my veins dilate, 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 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 indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity,
(if need be, you shall again have every one of those houses
to destroy them,
You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full
of comfort, built with money,
May they stand fast, then? not an hour except you above them and all
stand fast;)
O banner, not money so precious are you, not 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 daybreak 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,
Out of reach, an idea 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--(absolute
owner of all)--O banner and pennant!
I too leave the rest--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, 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.
RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS.
1
Rise O days from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, 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, supercilious.
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!
Crash heavier, heavier yet O storms! you have done me good,
My soul prepared in the mountains absorbs your immortal 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 lightning, I have witness'd my cities
electric,
I have lived to behold man burst forth and warlike America rise,
Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds,
No more the mountains roam or sail the stormy sea.
VIRGINIA--THE WEST.
The noble sire fallen on evil days,
I saw with hand uplifted, menacing, brandishing,
(Memories of old in abeyance, love and faith in abeyance,)
The insane knife toward the Mother of All.
The noble son on sinewy feet advancing,
I saw, out of the land of prairies, land of Ohio's waters and of
Indiana,
To the rescue the stalwart giant hurry his plenteous offspring,
Drest in blue, bearing their trusty rifles on their shoulders.
Then the Mother of All with calm voice speaking,
As to you Rebellious, (I seemed to hear her say,) why strive against
me, and why seek my life?
When you yourself forever provide to defend me?
For you provided me Washington--and now these also.
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 marble and iron!
Proud and passionate city--mettlesome, mad, extravagant 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 any
thing,
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!
THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY.
_Volunteer of 1861-2, (at Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the
Centenarian.)_
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 you, and presently I must have them serve me.
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 their orders?
Do you hear the clank of the muskets?
Why what comes over you now old man?
Why do you tremble and clutch my hand so convulsively?
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,
Green the midsummer verdure and fresh blows the dallying breeze,
O'er proud and peaceful cities and arm of the sea between.
But drill and parade are over, they march back to quarters,
Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping!
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._
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.
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 disappear,
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.
As I talk I remember all, I remember the Declaration,
It was read here, the whole army paraded, it was read to us here,
By his staff surrounded the General stood in the middle, he held up
his unsheath'd sword,
It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army.
'Twas a bold act then--the English war-ships had just arrived,
We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,
And the transports swarming with soldiers.
A few days more and they landed, and then the battle.
Twenty thousand were brought against us,
A veteran force furnish'd with good artillery.
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 well it stood confronting death.
Who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting
death?
It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,
Raised in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known personally to
the General.
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, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing
their guns,
That brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy's mercy.
The General watch'd them from this hill,
They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment,
They drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the
middle,
But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them!
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.
Meanwhile the British manoeuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle,
But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle.
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.
That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two
thousand strong,
Few return'd, nearly all remain in Brooklyn.
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.
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 oft' against us
encamp'd,
Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over
their victory.
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.
I saw him at the river-side,
Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation;
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.
Every one else seem'd fill'd with gloom,
Many no doubt thought of capitulation.