(_Washington City_, 1865)
Spirit whose work is done--spirit of
dreadful hours!
Ere departing fade from my eyes your
forests of bayonets;
Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts,
(yet onward ever unfaltering
pressing,)
Spirit of many a solemn day and many
a savage scene--electric spirit,
That with muttering voice through the
war now closed, like a tireless
phantom flitted,
Rousing the land with breath of flame,
while you beat and beat the drum,
Now as the sound of the drum, hollow
and harsh to the last, reverberates
round me,
As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return,
return from the battles,
As the muskets of the young men yet
lean over their shoulders,
As I look on the bayonets bristling over
their shoulders,
As those slanted bayonets, whole forests
of them appearing in the distance,
approach and pass on, returning
homeward,
Moving with steady motion, swaying to
and fro to the right and left,
Evenly lightly rising and falling while
the steps keep time;
Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one
day, but pale as death next day,
Touch my mouth ere you depart, press
my lips close,
Leave me your pulses of rage--bequeath
them to me--fill me with currents
convulsive,
Let them scorch and blister out of my
chants when you are gone,
Let them identify you to the future in
these songs.