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Poems
By
Walt Whitman
Contents
FLUX. =
FRANCE,
THE EIGHTEENTH YEAR OF THESE STATES.[1].
EUROPE,
THE SEVENTY-SECOND AND SEVENTY-THIRD YEARS OF THESE STATES.[1]
TO A
FOILED REVOLTER OR REVOLTRESS.
SONG
OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK.
POET. =
CHILD. =
FATHER. =
POET. =
CHILD. =
FATHER. =
POET. =
CHILD. =
FATHER. =
POET. =
POET. =
VISAGES. =
MUSIC. =
ANSWER. =
ENVY. =
PRESIDENT
LINCOLN'S FUNERAL HYMN.
O
CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! (FOR THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.).
VOICES. =
LINKS. =
TO
IDENTIFY THE SIXTEENTH, SEVENTEENTH, OR EIGHTEENTH PRESIDENTIAD.[1]
TEARS. =
BURIAL. =
GOD. =
SAVIOUR. =
SATAN. =
SELECTED AND EDITED BY WILLIAM MIC=
HAEL
ROSSETTI
A
NEW EDITION
&=
nbsp;
"Or si sa il nome, o per tristo o per buono, E si sa pur=
e al
mondo ch'io ci sono." =
=
--MICHELANGELO.
=
"That
Angels are human forms, or men, I have seen a thousand times. I have also
frequently told them that men in the Christian world are in such gross igno=
rance
respecting Angels and Spirits as to suppose them to be minds without a form=
, or
mere thoughts, of which they have no other idea than as something ethereal
possessing a vital principle. To the first or ultimate heaven also correspo=
nd
the forms of man's body, called its members, organs, and viscera. Thus the
corporeal part of man is that in which heaven ultimately closes, and upon
which, as on its base, it rests." --SWEDENBORG.
"Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a na=
tion
that it get an articulate voice--that it produce a man who will speak forth
melodiously what the heart of it means." --CARLYLE.
=
"Les
efforts de vos ennemis contre vous, leurs cris, leur rage impuissante, et l=
eurs
petits succès, ne doivent pas vous effrayer; ce ne sont que des &eac=
ute;gratignures
sur les épaules d'Hercule." --ROBESPIERRE.
=
DEAR SCOTT,--Among various gifts wh=
ich I
have received from you, tangible and intangible, was a copy of the original
quarto edition of Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which you presented to me soon
after its first appearance in 1855. At a time when few people on this side =
of
the Atlantic had looked into the book, and still fewer had found in it anyt=
hing
save matter for ridicule, you had appraised it, and seen that its value was
real and great. A true poet and a strong thinker like yourself was indeed
likely to see that. I read the book eagerly, and perceived that its
substantiality and power were still ahead of any eulogium with which it mig=
ht
have come commended to me--and, in fact, ahead of most attempts that could =
be
made at verbal definition of them.
Some years
afterwards, getting to know our friend Swinburne, I found with much
satisfaction that he also was an ardent (not of course a blind) admirer of
Whitman. Satisfaction, and a degree almost of surprise; for his intense sen=
se
of poetic refinement of form in his own works and his exacting acuteness as=
a
critic might have seemed likely to carry him away from Whitman in sympathy =
at
least, if not in actual latitude of perception. Those who find the American
poet "utterly formless," "intolerably rough and floundering,=
"
"destitute of the A B C of art," and the like, might not unprofit=
ably
ponder this very different estimate of him by the author of Atalanta in
Calydon.
May we hope that =
now,
twelve years after the first appearance of Leaves of Grass, the English rea=
ding
public may be prepared for a selection of Whitman's poems, and soon hereaft=
er
for a complete edition of them? I trust this may prove to be the case. At a=
ny
rate, it has been a great gratification to me to be concerned in the
experiment; and this is enhanced by my being enabled to associate with it y=
our
name, as that of an early and well-qualified appreciator of Whitman, and no
less as that of a dear friend.
Yours affectionat=
ely,
W. M. ROSSETTI.
October 1867.
During the summer of 1867 I had the
opportunity (which I had often wished for) of expressing in print my estima=
te
and admiration of the works of the American poet Walt Whitman.[1] Like a st=
one
dropped into a pond, an article of that sort may spread out its concentric
circles of consequences. One of these is the invitation which I have receiv=
ed
to edit a selection from Whitman's writings; virtually the first sample of =
his
work ever published in England, and offering the first tolerably fair chanc=
e he
has had of making his way with English readers on his own showing. Hitherto,
such readers--except the small percentage of them to whom it has happened t=
o come
across the poems in some one of their American editions--have picked acquai=
ntance
with them only through the medium of newspaper extracts and criticisms, mos=
tly
short-sighted, sneering, and depreciatory, and rather intercepting than
forwarding the candid construction which people might be willing to put upon
the poems, alike in their beauties and their aberrations. Some English crit=
ics,
no doubt, have been more discerning--as W. J. Fox, of old, in the Dispatch,=
the
writer of the notice in the Leader, and of late two in the Pall Mall Gazette
and the London Review;[2] but these have been the exceptions among us, the =
great
majority of the reviewers presenting that happy and familiar critical
combination-- scurrility and superciliousness.
[Footnote 1: See =
The
Chronicle for 6th July 1867, article Walt Whitman's Poems.]
[Footnote 2: Since
this Prefatory Notice was written [in 1868], another eulogistic review of
Whitman has appeared--that by Mr. Robert Buchanan, in the Broadway.]
As it was my lot =
to
set down so recently several of the considerations which seem to me most
essential and most obvious in regard to Whitman's writings, I can scarcely =
now
recur to the subject without either repeating something of what I then said=
, or
else leaving unstated some points of principal importance. I shall therefore
adopt the simplest course--that of summarising the critical remarks in my
former article; after which, I shall leave without further development (amp=
le
as is the amount of development most of them would claim) the particular to=
pics
there glanced at, and shall proceed to some other phases of the subject.
Whitman republish=
ed in
1867 his complete poetical works in one moderate- sized volume, consisting =
of
the whole Leaves of Grass, with a sort of supplement thereto named Songs be=
fore
Parting,[3] and of the Drum Taps, with its Sequel. It has been intimated th=
at
he does not expect to write any more poems, unless it might be in expressio=
n of
the religious side of man's nature. However, one poem on the last American
harvest sown and reaped by those who had been soldiers in the great war, has
already appeared since the volume in question, and has been republished in
England.
[Footnote 3: In a
copy of the book revised by Whitman himself, which we have seen, this title=
is
modified into Songs of Parting.]
Whitman's poems
present no trace of rhyme, save in a couple or so of chance instances. Part=
s of
them, indeed, may be regarded as a warp of prose amid the weft of poetry, s=
uch
as Shakespeare furnishes the precedent for in drama. Still there is a very
powerful and majestic rhythmical sense throughout.
Lavish and persis=
tent
has been the abuse poured forth upon Whitman by his own countrymen; the
tricklings of the British press give but a moderate idea of it. The poet is
known to repay scorn with scorn. Emerson can, however, from the first be
claimed as on Whitman's side; nor, it is understood after some inquiry, has
that great thinker since then retreated from this position in fundamentals,
although his admiration may have entailed some worry upon him, and reports =
of
his recantation have been rife. Of other writers on Whitman's side, express=
ing
themselves with no measured enthusiasm, one may cite Mr. M. D. Conway; Mr. =
W.
D. O'Connor, who wrote a pamphlet named The Good Grey Poet; and Mr. John
Burroughs, author of Walt Whitman as Poet and Person, published quite recen=
tly
in New York. His thorough-paced admirers declare Whitman to be beyond rival=
ry
the poet of the epoch; an estimate which, startling as it will sound at the
first, may nevertheless be upheld, on the grounds that Whitman is beyond all
his competitors a man of the period, one of audacious personal ascendant, i=
ncapable
of all compromise, and an initiator in the scheme and form of his works.
Certain faults are
charged against him, and, as far as they are true, shall frankly stand
confessed--some of them as very serious faults. Firstly, he speaks on occas=
ion
of gross things in gross, crude, and plain terms. Secondly, he uses some wo=
rds
absurd or ill-constructed, others which produce a jarring effect in poetry,=
or
indeed in any lofty literature. Thirdly, he sins from time to time by being
obscure, fragmentary, and agglomerative--giving long strings of successive =
and
detached items, not, however, devoid of a certain primitive effectiveness.
Fourthly, his self- assertion is boundless; yet not always to be understood=
as
strictly or merely personal to himself, but sometimes as vicarious, the poet
speaking on behalf of all men, and every man and woman. These and any other
faults appear most harshly on a cursory reading; Whitman is a poet who bears
and needs to be read as a whole, and then the volume and torrent of his pow=
er carry
the disfigurements along with it, and away.
The subject-matte= r of Whitman's poems, taken individually, is absolutely miscellaneous: he touches upon any and every subject. But he has prefixed to his last edition an "Inscription" in the following terms, showing that the key-words = of the whole book are two--"One's-self" and "En Masse:"--<= o:p>
Small is the them=
e of
the following chant, yet the greatest.--namely, ONE'S-SELF; that wondrous
thing, a simple separate person. That, for the use of the New World, I sing.
Man's physiology complete, from top to toe, I sing. Not physiognomy alone, =
nor
brain alone, is worthy for the Muse: I say the form complete is worthier fa=
r.
The female equally with the male I sing. Nor cease at the theme of One's-se=
lf.
I speak the word of the modern, the word EN MASSE. My days I sing, and the
lands--with interstice I knew of hapless war. O friend, whoe'er you are, at
last arriving hither to commence, I feel through every leaf the pressure of
your hand, which I return. And thus upon our journey linked together let us=
go.
The book, then, t=
aken
as a whole, is the poem both of Personality and of Democracy; and, it may be
added, of American nationalism. It is par excellence the modern poem. It is
distinguished also by this peculiarity-- that in it the most literal view of
things is continually merging into the most rhapsodic or passionately abstr=
act.
Picturesqueness it has, but mostly of a somewhat patriarchal kind, not deri=
ving
from the "word-painting" of the littérateur; a certain ech=
o of
the old Hebrew poetry may even be caught in it, extra-modern though it is.
Another most prominent and pervading quality of the book is the exuberant
physique of the author. The conceptions are throughout those of a man in ro=
bust
health, and might alter much under different conditions.
Further, there is=
a
strong tone of paradox in Whitman's writings. He is both a realist and an
optimist in extreme measure: he contemplates evil as in some sense not
existing, or, if existing, then as being of as much importance as anything
else. Not that he is a materialist; on the contrary, he is a most strenuous
assertor of the soul, and, with the soul, of the body as its infallible
associate and vehicle in the present frame of things. Neither does he drift
into fatalism or indifferentism; the energy of his temperament, and ever-fr=
esh
sympathy with national and other developments, being an effectual bar to th=
is.
The paradoxical element of the poems is such that one may sometimes find th=
em
in conflict with what has preceded, and would not be much surprised if they
said at any moment the reverse of whatever they do say. This is mainly due =
to
the multiplicity of the aspects of things, and to the immense width of rela=
tion
in which Whitman stands to all sorts and all aspects of them.
But the greatest =
of
this poet's distinctions is his absolute and entire originality. He may be
termed formless by those who, not without much reason to show for themselve=
s,
are wedded to the established forms and ratified refinements of poetic art;=
but
it seems reasonable to enlarge the canon till it includes so great and
startling a genius, rather than to draw it close and exclude him. His work =
is
practically certain to stand as archetypal for many future poetic efforts--=
so
great is his power as an originator, so fervid his initiative. It forms
incomparably the largest performance of our period in poetry. Victor Hugo's
Légende des Siècles alone might be named with it for largenes=
s,
and even that with much less of a new starting-point in conception and
treatment. Whitman breaks with all precedent. To what he himself perceives =
and
knows he has a personal relation of the intensest kind: to anything in the =
way
of prescription, no relation at all. But he is saved from isolation by the
depth of his Americanism; with the movement of his predominant nation he is
moved. His comprehension, energy, and tenderness are all extreme, and all
inspired by actualities. And, as for poetic genius, those who, without being
ready to concede that faculty to Whitman, confess his iconoclastic boldness=
and
his Titanic power of temperament, working in the sphere of poetry, do in ef=
fect
confess his genius as well.
Such, still furth=
er
condensed, was the critical summary which I gave of Whitman's position among
poets. It remains to say something a little more precise of the particular
qualities of his works. And first, not to slur over defects, I shall extract
some sentences from a letter which a friend, most highly entitled to form a=
nd
express an opinion on any poetic question--one, too, who abundantly upholds=
the
greatness of Whitman as a poet--has addressed to me with regard to the
criticism above condensed. His observations, though severe on this individu=
al
point, appear to me not other than correct. "I don't think that you qu=
ite
put strength enough into your blame on one side, while you make at least en=
ough
of minor faults or eccentricities. To me it seems always that Whitman's gre=
at
flaw is a fault of debility, not an excess of strength--I mean his bluster.=
His
own personal and national self-reliance and arrogance, I need not tell you,=
I applaud,
and sympathise and rejoice in; but the blatant ebullience of feeling and
speech, at times, is feeble for so great a poet of so great a people. He is=
in
part certainly the poet of democracy; but not wholly, because he tries so
openly to be, and asserts so violently that he is-- always as if he was
fighting the case out on a platform. This is the only thing I really or gre=
atly
dislike or revolt from. On the whole" (adds my correspondent), "my
admiration and enjoyment of his greatness grow keener and warmer every time=
I
think of him"--a feeling, I may be permitted to observe, which is fully
shared by myself, and, I suppose, by all who consent in any adequate measur=
e to
recognise Whitman, and to yield themselves to his influence.
To continue. Besi=
des
originality and daring, which have been already insisted upon, width and
intensity are leading characteristics of his writings--width both of
subject-matter and of comprehension, intensity of self-absorption into what=
the
poet contemplates and expresses. He scans and presents an enormous panorama,
unrolled before him as from a mountain-top; and yet, whatever most large or
most minute or casual thing his eye glances upon, that he enters into with a
depth of affection which identifies him with it for a time, be the object w=
hat
it may. There is a singular interchange also of actuality and of ideal
substratum and suggestion. While he sees men, with even abnormal exactness =
and
sympathy, as men, he sees them also "as trees walking," and admit=
s us
to perceive that the whole show is in a measure spectral and unsubstantial,=
and
the mask of a larger and profounder reality beneath it, of which it is givi=
ng
perpetual intimations and auguries. He is the poet indeed of literality, bu=
t of
passionate and significant literality, full of indirections as well as
directness, and of readings between the lines. If he is the 'cutest of Yank=
ees,
he is also as truly an enthusiast as any the most typical poet. All his
faculties and performance glow into a white heat of brotherliness; and ther=
e is
a poignancy both of tenderness and of beauty about his finer works which di=
scriminates
them quite as much as their modernness, audacity, or any other exceptional
point. If the reader wishes to see the great and more intimate powers of
Whitman in their fullest expression, he may consult the Nocturn for the Dea=
th
of Lincoln; than which it would be difficult to find anywhere a purer, more
elevated, more poetic, more ideally abstract, or at the same time more
pathetically personal, threnody--uniting the thrilling chords of grief, of
beauty, of triumph, and of final unfathomed satisfaction. With all his
singularities, Whitman is a master of words and of sounds: he has them at h=
is
command--made for, and instinct with, his purpose--messengers of unsurpassa=
ble
sympathy and intelligence between himself and his readers. The entire book =
may
be called the paean of the natural man--not of the merely physical, still l=
ess
of the disjunctively intellectual or spiritual man, but of him who, being a=
man
first and foremost, is therein also a spirit and an intellect.
There is a singul=
ar
and impressive intuition or revelation of Swedenborg's: that the whole of
heaven is in the form of one man, and the separate societies of heaven in t=
he
forms of the several parts of man. In a large sense, the general drift of
Whitman's writings, even down to the passages which read as most bluntly
physical, bear a striking correspondence or analogy to this dogma. He takes
man, and every organism and faculty of man, as the unit--the datum--from wh=
ich
all that we know, discern, and speculate, of abstract and supersensual, as =
well
as of concrete and sensual, has to be computed. He knows of nothing nobler =
than
that unit man; but, knowing that, he can use it for any multiple, and for a=
ny
dynamical extension or recast.
Let us next obtain
some idea of what this most remarkable poet--the founder of American poetry
rightly to be so called, and the most sonorous poetic voice of the
tangibilities of actual and prospective democracy--is in his proper life and
person.
Walt Whitman was =
born
at the farm-village of West Hills, Long Island, in the State of New York, a=
nd
about thirty miles distant from the capital, on the 31st of May 1819. His
father's family, English by origin, had already been settled in this locali=
ty
for five generations. His mother, named Louisa van Velsor, was of Dutch
extraction, and came from Cold Spring, Queen's County, about three miles fr=
om West
Hills. "A fine-looking old lady" she has been termed in her advan=
ced
age. A large family ensued from the marriage. The father was a farmer, and
afterwards a carpenter and builder; both parents adhered in religion to
"the great Quaker iconoclast, Elias Hicks." Walt was schooled at
Brooklyn, a suburb of New York, and began life at the age of thirteen, work=
ing
as a printer, later on as a country teacher, and then as a miscellaneous
press-writer in New York. From 1837 to 1848 he had, as Mr. Burroughs too pr=
omiscuously
expresses it, "sounded all experiences of life, with all their passion=
s,
pleasures, and abandonments." In 1849 he began travelling, and became =
at
New Orleans a newspaper editor, and at Brooklyn, two years afterwards, a
printer. He next followed his father's business of carpenter and builder. In
1862, after the breaking-out of the great Civil War, in which his enthusias=
tic
unionism and also his anti-slavery feelings attached him inseparably though=
not
rancorously to the good cause of the North, he undertook the nursing of the=
sick
and wounded in the field, writing also a correspondence in the New York Tim=
es.
I am informed that it was through Emerson's intervention that he obtained t=
he
sanction of President Lincoln for this purpose of charity, with authority to
draw the ordinary army rations; Whitman stipulating at the same time that he
would not receive any remuneration for his services. The first immediate
occasion of his going down to camp was on behalf of his brother,
Lieutenant-Colonel George W. Whitman, of the 51st New York Veterans, who had
been struck in the face by a piece of shell at Fredericksburg. From the spr=
ing
of 1863 this nursing, both in the field and more especially in hospital at
Washington, became his "one daily and nightly occupation;" and the
strongest testimony is borne to his measureless self-devotion and kindlines=
s in
the work, and to the unbounded fascination, a kind of magnetic attraction a=
nd
ascendency, which he exercised over the patients, often with the happiest
sanitary results. Northerner or Southerner, the belligerents received the s=
ame
tending from him. It is said that by the end of the war he had personally
ministered to upwards of 100,000 sick and wounded. In a Washington hospital=
he
caught, in the summer of 1864, the first illness he had ever known, caused =
by
poison absorbed into the system in attending some of the worst cases of
gangrene. It disabled him for six months. He returned to the hospitals towa=
rds
the beginning of 1865, and obtained also a clerkship in the Department of t=
he Interior.
It should be added that, though he never actually joined the army as a
combatant, he made a point of putting down his name on the enrolment- lists=
for
the draft, to take his chance as it might happen for serving the country in=
arms.
The reward of his devotedness came at the end of June 1865, in the form of
dismissal from his clerkship by the minister, Mr. Harlan, who learned that
Whitman was the author of the Leaves of Grass; a book whose outspokenness, =
or
(as the official chief considered it) immorality, raised a holy horror in t=
he
ministerial breast. The poet, however, soon obtained another modest but
creditable post in the office of the Attorney-General. He still visits the
hospitals on Sundays, and often on other days as well.
The portrait of M=
r.
Whitman reproduced in the present volume is taken from an engraving after a
daguerreotype given in the original Leaves of Grass. He is much above the
average size, and noticeably well-proportioned--a model of physique and of
health, and, by natural consequence, as fully and finely related to all
physical facts by his bodily constitution as to all mental and spiritual fa=
cts
by his mind and his consciousness. He is now, however, old-looking for his
years, and might even (according to the statement of one of his enthusiasts,
Mr. O'Connor) have passed for being beyond the age for the draft when the w=
ar
was going on. The same gentleman, in confutation of any inferences which mi=
ght
be drawn from the Leaves of Grass by a Harlan or other Holy Willie, affirms
that "one more irreproachable in his relations to the other sex lives =
not
upon this earth"--an assertion which one must take as one finds it, ha=
ving
neither confirmatory nor traversing evidence at hand. Whitman has light blue
eyes, a florid complexion, a fleecy beard now grey, and a quite peculiar so=
rt
of magnetism about him in relation to those with whom he comes in contact. =
His ordinary
appearance is masculine and cheerful: he never shows depression of spirits,=
and
is sufficiently undemonstrative, and even somewhat silent in company. He has
always been carried by predilection towards the society of the common peopl=
e;
but is not the less for that open to refined and artistic impressions--fond=
of
operatic and other good music, and discerning in works of art. As to either
praise or blame of what he writes, he is totally indifferent, not to say
scornful--having in fact a very decisive opinion of his own concerning its
calibre and destinies. Thoreau, a very congenial spirit, said of Whitman,
"He is Democracy;" and again, "After all, he suggests someth=
ing
a little more than human." Lincoln broke out into the exclamation,
"Well, he looks like a man!" Whitman responded to the instinctive
appreciation of the President, considering him (it is said by Mr. Burroughs)
"by far the noblest and purest of the political characters of the
time;" and, if anything can cast, in the eyes of posterity, an added h=
alo
of brightness round the unsullied personal qualities and the great doings of
Lincoln, it will assuredly be the written monument reared to him by Whitman=
.
The best sketch t=
hat
I know of Whitman as an accessible human individual is that given by Mr.
Conway.[4] I borrow from it the following few details. "Having occasio=
n to
visit New York soon after the appearance of Walt Whitman's book, I was urge=
d by
some friends to search him out.... The day was excessively hot, the thermom=
eter
at nearly 100°, and the sun blazed down as only on sandy Long Island can
the sun blaze.... I saw stretched upon his back, and gazing up straight at =
the
terrible sun, the man I was seeking. With his grey clothing, his blue-grey
shirt, his iron-grey hair, his swart sunburnt face and bare neck, he lay up=
on
the brown-and-white grass--for the sun had burnt away its greenness--and wa=
s so
like the earth upon which he rested that he seemed almost enough a part of =
it
for one to pass by without recognition. I approached him, gave my name and
reason for searching him out, and asked him if he did not find the sun rath=
er
hot. 'Not at all too hot,' was his reply; and he confided to me that this w=
as one
of his favourite places and attitudes for composing 'poems.' He then walked
with me to his home, and took me along its narrow ways to his room. A small
room of about fifteen feet square, with a single window looking out on the
barren solitudes of the island; a small cot; a wash-stand with a little
looking-glass hung over it from a tack in the wall; a pine table with pen, =
ink,
and paper on it; an old line-engraving representing Bacchus, hung on the wa=
ll,
and opposite a similar one of Silenus: these constituted the visible
environments of Walt Whitman. There was not, apparently, a single book in t=
he
room.... The books he seemed to know and love best were the Bible, Homer, a=
nd
Shakespeare: these he owned, and probably had in his pockets while we were
talking. He had two studies where he read; one was the top of an omnibus, a=
nd
the other a small mass of sand, then entirely uninhabited, far out in the
ocean, called Coney Island.... The only distinguished contemporary he had e=
ver
met was the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, of Brooklyn, who had visited him.... He
confessed to having no talent for industry, and that his forte was 'loafing=
and
writing poems:' he was poor, but had discovered that he could, on the whole=
, live
magnificently on bread and water.... On no occasion did he laugh, nor indeed
did I ever see him smile."
[Footnote 4: In t=
he
Fortnightly Review, 15th October 1866.]
The first trace of
Whitman as a writer is in the pages of the Democratic Review in or about 18=
41.
Here he wrote some prose tales and sketches--poor stuff mostly, so far as I
have seen of them, yet not to be wholly confounded with the commonplace. On=
e of
them is a tragic school-incident, which may be surmised to have fallen under
his personal observation in his early experience as a teacher. His first po=
em
of any sort was named Blood Money, in denunciation of the Fugitive Slave La=
w,
which severed him from the Democratic party. His first considerable work was
the Leaves of Grass. He began it in 1853, and it underwent two or three
complete rewritings prior to its publication at Brooklyn in 1855, in a quar=
to volume--peculiar-looking,
but with something perceptibly artistic about it. The type of that edition =
was
set up entirely by himself. He was moved to undertake this formidable poetic
work (as indicated in a private letter of Whitman's, from which Mr. Conway =
has
given a sentence or two) by his sense of the great materials which America
could offer for a really American poetry, and by his contempt for the curre=
nt
work of his compatriots--"either the poetry of an elegantly weak
sentimentalism, at bottom nothing but maudlin puerilities or more or less
musical verbiage, arising out of a life of depression and enervation as the=
ir
result; or else that class of poetry, plays, &c., of which the foundati=
on
is feudalism, with its ideas of lords and ladies, its imported standard of
gentility, and the manners of European high-life-below-stairs in every line=
and
verse." Thus incited to poetic self-expression, Whitman (adds Mr. Conw=
ay)
"wrote on a sheet of paper, in large letters, these words, 'Make the
Work,' and fixed it above his table, where he could always see it whilst
writing. Thenceforth every cloud that flitted over him, every distant sail,
every face and form encountered, wrote a line in his book."
The Leaves of Gra=
ss
excited no sort of notice until a letter from Emerson[5] appeared, expressi=
ng a
deep sense of its power and magnitude. He termed it "the most
extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed.&quo=
t;
[Footnote 5: Mr.
Burroughs (to whom I have recourse for most biographical facts concerning
Whitman) is careful to note, in order that no misapprehension may arise on =
the
subject, that, up to the time of his publishing the Leaves of Grass, the au=
thor
had not read either the essays or the poems of Emerson.]
The edition of ab=
out
a thousand copies sold off in less than a year. Towards the end of 1856 a
second edition in 16mo appeared, printed in New York, also of about a thous=
and
copies. Its chief feature was an additional poem beginning "A Woman wa=
its
for me." It excited a considerable storm. Another edition, of about fo=
ur
to five thousand copies, duodecimo, came out at Boston in 1860-61, includin=
g a
number of new pieces. The Drum Taps, consequent upon the war, with their
Sequel, which comprises the poem on Lincoln, followed in 1865; and in 1867,=
as
I have already noted, a complete edition of all the poems, including a
supplement named Songs before Parting. The first of all the Leaves of Grass=
, in
point of date, was the long and powerful composition entitled Walt
Whitman--perhaps the most typical and memorable of all of his productions, =
but
shut out from the present selection for reasons given further on. The final
edition shows numerous and considerable variations from all its precursors;
evidencing once again that Whitman is by no means the rough-and-ready write=
r, panoplied
in rude art and egotistic self-sufficiency, that many people suppose him to=
be.
Even since this issue, the book has been slightly revised by its author's o=
wn
hand, with a special view to possible English circulation. The copy so revi=
sed
has reached me (through the liberal and friendly hands of Mr. Conway) after=
my
selection had already been decided on; and the few departures from the last
printed text which might on comparison be found in the present volume are d=
ue
to my having had the advantage of following this revised copy. In all other
respects I have felt bound to reproduce the last edition, without so much as
considering whether here and there I might personally prefer the readings of
the earlier issues.
The selection here
offered to the English reader contains a little less than half the entire b=
ulk
of Whitman's poetry. My choice has proceeded upon two simple rules: first, =
to
omit entirely every poem which could with any tolerable fairness be deemed
offensive to the feelings of morals or propriety in this peculiarly nervous
age; and, second, to include every remaining poem which appeared to me of
conspicuous beauty or interest. I have also inserted the very remarkable pr=
ose
preface which Whitman printed in the original edition of Leaves of Grass, an
edition that has become a literary rarity. This preface has not been reprod=
uced
in any later publication, although its materials have to some extent been
worked up into poems of a subsequent date.[6] From this prose composition,
contrary to what has been my rule with any of the poems, it has appeared to=
me permissible
to omit two or three short phrases which would have shocked ordinary reader=
s,
and the retention of which, had I held it obligatory, would have entailed t=
he
exclusion of the preface itself as a whole.
[Footnote 6: Comp=
are,
for instance, the Preface, pp. 38, 39, with the poem To a Foiled Revolter or
Revoltress, p. 133.]
A few words must =
be
added as to the indecencies scattered through Whitman's writings. Indecenci=
es
or improprieties--or, still better, deforming crudities--they may rightly be
termed; to call them immoralities would be going too far. Whitman finds
himself, and other men and women, to be a compound of soul and body; he fin=
ds
that body plays an extremely prominent and determining part in whatever he =
and
other mundane dwellers have cognisance of; he perceives this to be the
necessary condition of things, and therefore, as he fully and openly accepts
it, the right condition; and he knows of no reason why what is universally =
seen
and known, necessary and right, should not also be allowed and proclaimed in
speech. That such a view of the matter is entitled to a great deal of weigh=
t,
and at any rate to candid consideration and construction, appears to me not=
to
admit of a doubt: neither is it dubious that the contrary view, the only vi=
ew
which a mealy-mouthed British nineteenth century admits as endurable, amoun=
ts
to the condemnation of nearly every great or eminent literary work of past =
time,
whatever the century it belongs to, the country it comes from, the departme=
nt
of writing it illustrates, or the degree or sort of merit it possesses. Ten=
th,
second, or first century before Christ--first, eighth, fourteenth, fifteent=
h,
sixteenth, seventeenth, or even eighteenth century A.D.--it is still the sa=
me:
no book whose subject-matter admits as possible of an impropriety according=
to
current notions can be depended upon to fail of containing such
impropriety,--can, if those notions are accepted as the canon, be placed wi=
th a
sense of security in the hands of girls and youths, or read aloud to women;=
and
this holds good just as much of severely moral or plainly descriptive as of
avowedly playful, knowing, or licentious books. For my part, I am far from
thinking that earlier state of literature, and the public feeling from whic=
h it
sprang, the wrong ones-- and our present condition the only right one. Equa=
lly far,
therefore, am I from indignantly condemning Whitman for every startling
allusion or expression which he has admitted into his book, and which I, fr=
om
motives of policy, have excluded from this selection; except, indeed, that I
think many of his tabooed passages are extremely raw and ugly on the ground=
of poetic
or literary art, whatever aspect they may bear in morals. I have been rigid=
in
exclusion, because it appears to me highly desirable that a fair verdict on
Whitman should now be pronounced in England on poetic grounds alone; and
because it was clearly impossible that the book, with its audacities of top=
ic
and of expression included, should run the same chance of justice, and of
circulation through refined minds and hands, which may possibly be accorded=
to
it after the rejection of all such peccant poems. As already intimated, I h=
ave
not in a single instance excised any parts of poems: to do so would have be=
en,
I conceive, no less wrongful towards the illustrious American than repugnan=
t,
and indeed unendurable, to myself, who aspire to no Bowdlerian honours. The=
consequence
is, that the reader loses in toto several important poems, and some extreme=
ly
fine ones--notably the one previously alluded to, of quite exceptional value
and excellence, entitled Walt Whitman. I sacrifice them grudgingly; and yet
willingly, because I believe this to be the only thing to do with due regar=
d to
the one reasonable object which a selection can subserve--that of paving the
way towards the issue and unprejudiced reception of a complete edition of t=
he
poems in England. For the benefit of misconstructionists, let me add in
distinct terms that, in respect of morals and propriety, I neither admire n=
or
approve the incriminated passages in Whitman's poems, but, on the contrary,
consider that most of them would be much better away; and, in respect of ar=
t, I
doubt whether even one of them deserves to be retained in the exact phraseo=
logy
it at present exhibits. This, however, does not amount to saying that Whitm=
an
is a vile man, or a corrupt or corrupting writer; he is none of these.
The only division=
of
his poems into sections, made by Whitman himself, has been noted above: Lea=
ves
of Grass, Songs before Parting, supplementary to the preceding, and Drum Ta=
ps,
with their Sequel. The peculiar title, Leaves of Grass, has become almost
inseparable from the name of Whitman; it seems to express with some aptness=
the
simplicity, universality, and spontaneity of the poems to which it is appli=
ed.
Songs before Parting may indicate that these compositions close Whitman's
poetic roll. Drum Taps are, of course, songs of the Civil War, and their Se=
quel
is mainly on the same theme: the chief poem in this last section being the =
one
on the death of Lincoln. These titles all apply to fully arranged series of=
compositions.
The present volume is not in the same sense a fully arranged series, but a
selection: and the relation of the poems inter se appears to me to depend on
altered conditions, which, however narrowed they are, it may be as well fra=
nkly
to recognise in practice. I have therefore redistributed the poems (a latit=
ude
of action which I trust the author may not object to), bringing together th=
ose
whose subject-matter seems to warrant it, however far separated they may
possibly be in the original volume. At the same time, I have retained some
characteristic terms used by Whitman himself, and have named my sections
respectively--
1. Chants Democratic (=
poems
of democracy). 2.
Drum Taps (war songs). 3. Walt Whitman
(personal poems). 4. Leaves of Grass
(unclassified poems). 5. Songs of Parti=
ng
(missives).
The first three
designations explain themselves. The fourth, Leaves of Grass, is not so
specially applicable to the particular poems of that section here as I shou=
ld
have liked it to be; but I could not consent to drop this typical name. The
Songs of Parting, my fifth section, are compositions in which the poet
expresses his own sentiment regarding his works, in which he forecasts their
future, or consigns them to the reader's consideration. It deserves mention
that, in the copy of Whitman's last American edition revised by his own han=
d,
as previously noticed, the series termed Songs of Parting has been recast, =
and
made to consist of poems of the same character as those included in my sect=
ion
No. 5.
Comparatively few=
of
Whitman's poems have been endowed by himself with titles properly so called.
Most of them are merely headed with the opening words of the poems
themselves--as "I was looking a long while;" "To get betimes=
in
Boston Town;" "When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed;" a=
nd so
on. It seems to me that in a selection such a lengthy and circuitous method=
of
identifying the poems is not desirable: I should wish them to be remembered=
by
brief, repeatable, and significant titles. I have therefore supplied titles=
of
my own to such pieces as bear none in the original edition: wherever a real
title appears in that edition, I have retained it.
With these remark=
s I
commend to the English reader the ensuing selection from a writer whom I
sincerely believe to be, whatever his faults, of the order of great poets, =
and
by no means of pretty good ones. I would urge the reader not to ask himself,
and not to return any answer to the questions, whether or not this poet is =
like
other poets--whether or not the particular application of rules of art whic=
h is
found to hold good in the works of those others, and to constitute a part of
their excellence, can be traced also in Whitman. Let the questions rather
be--Is he powerful? Is he American? Is he new? Is he rousing? Does he feel =
and
make me feel? I entertain no doubt as to the response which in due course of
time will be returned to these questions and such as these, in America, in
England, and elsewhere--or to the further question, "Is Whitman then
indeed a true and a great poet?" Lincoln's verdict bespeaks the ultima=
te
decision upon him, in his books as in his habit as he lives--"Well, he
looks like a man."
Walt Whitman occu=
pies
at the present moment a unique position on the globe, and one which, even in
past time, can have been occupied by only an infinitesimally small number of
men. He is the one man who entertains and professes respecting himself the
grave conviction that he is the actual and prospective founder of a new poe=
tic
literature, and a great one--a literature proportional to the material vast=
ness
and the unmeasured destinies of America: he believes that the Columbus of t=
he
continent or the Washington of the States was not more truly than himself in
the future a founder and upbuilder of this America. Surely a sublime
conviction, and expressed more than once in magnificent words--none more so
than the lines beginning
"Come, I will
make this continent indissoluble."[7]
[Footnote 7: See =
the
poem headed Love of Comrades, p. 308.]
Were the idea unt=
rue,
it would still be a glorious dream, which a man of genius might be content =
to
live in and die for: but is it untrue? Is it not, on the contrary, true, if=
not
absolutely, yet with a most genuine and substantial approximation? I believ=
e it
is thus true. I believe that Whitman is one of the huge, as yet mainly
unrecognised, forces of our time; privileged to evoke, in a country hitherto
still asking for its poet, a fresh, athletic, and American poetry, and
predestined to be traced up to by generation after generation of believing =
and
ardent--let us hope not servile--disciples.
"Poets are t=
he
unacknowledged legislators of the world." Shelley, who knew what he was
talking about when poetry was the subject, has said it, and with a profundi=
ty
of truth Whitman seems in a peculiar degree marked out for
"legislation" of the kind referred to. His voice will one day be =
potential
or magisterial wherever the English language is spoken--that is to say, in =
the
four corners of the earth; and in his own American hemisphere, the uttermost
avatars of democracy will confess him not more their announcer than their
inspirer.
1868. W. M. ROSSE=
TTI.
N.B.--The above
prefatory notice was written in 1868, and is reproduced practically unalter=
ed.
Were it to be brought up to the present date, 1886, I should have to mention
Whitman's books Two Rivulets and Specimen-days and Collect, and the fact th=
at
for several years past he has been partially disabled by a paralytic attack=
. He
now lives at Camden, New Jersey.
1886. W. M. R.
PREFACE TO LEAVES OF GRAS=
S.
America does not repel the past, or=
what
it has produced under its forms, or amid other politics, or the idea of cas=
tes,
or the old religions; accepts the lesson with calmness; is not so impatient=
as
has been supposed that the slough still sticks to opinions and manners and
literature while the life which served its requirements has passed into the=
new
life of the new forms; perceives that the corpse is slowly borne from the
eating and sleeping rooms of the house; perceives that it waits a little wh=
ile
in the door, that it was fittest for its days, that its action has descende=
d to
the stalwart and well-shaped heir who approaches, and that he shall be fitt=
est
for his days.
The Americans, of=
all
nations at any time upon the earth, have probably the fullest poetical Natu=
re.
The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem. In the hist=
ory
of the earth hitherto the largest and most stirring appear tame and orderly=
to
their ampler largeness and stir. Here at last is something in the doings of=
man
that corresponds with the broadcast doings of the day and night. Here is not
merely a nation, but a teeming nation of nations. Here is action untied from
strings, necessarily blind to particulars and details, magnificently moving=
in
vast masses.
Here is the
hospitality which for ever indicates heroes. Here are the roughs and beards=
and
space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves. Here the performa=
nce,
disdaining the trivial, unapproached in the tremendous audacity of its crow=
ds
and groupings and the push of its perspective, spreads with crampless and
flowing breadth, and showers its prolific and splendid extravagance. One se=
es
it must indeed own the riches of the summer and winter, and need never be
bankrupt while corn grows from the ground, or the orchards drop apples, or =
the
bays contain fish, or men beget children.
Other states indi=
cate
themselves in their deputies: but the genius of the United States is not be=
st
or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or author=
s or
colleges, or churches, or parlours, nor even in its newspapers or inventors,
but always most in the common people. Their manners, speech, dress,
friendships,--the freshness and candour of their physiognomy--the picturesq=
ue
looseness of their carriage--their deathless attachment to freedom--their
aversion to anything indecorous or soft or mean--the practical acknowledgme=
nt
of the citizens of one state by the citizens of all other states--the
fierceness of their roused resentment-- their curiosity and welcome of
novelty--their self-esteem and wonderful sympathy--their susceptibility to a
slight--the air they have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in=
the
presence of superiors--the fluency of their speech--their delight in music,=
the
sure symptom of manly tenderness and native elegance of soul--their good te=
mper
and open- handedness--the terrible significance of their elections, the
President's taking off his hat to them, not they to him--these too are unrh=
ymed
poetry. It awaits the gigantic and generous treatment worthy of it.
The largeness of
nature or the nation were monstrous without a corresponding largeness and
generosity of the spirit of the citizen. Not nature, nor swarming states, n=
or
streets and steamships, nor prosperous business, nor farms nor capital nor
learning, may suffice for the ideal of man, nor suffice the poet. No
reminiscences may suffice either. A live nation can always cut a deep mark,=
and
can have the best authority the cheapest--namely, from its own soul. This is
the sum of the profitable uses of individuals or states, and of present act=
ion
and grandeur, and of the subjects of poets.--As if it were necessary to trot
back generation after generation to the eastern records! As if the beauty a=
nd
sacredness of the demonstrable must fall behind that of the mythical! As if=
men
do not make their mark out of any times! As if the opening of the western
continent by discovery, and what has transpired since in North and South
America, were less than the small theatre of the antique, or the aimless
sleep-walking of the Middle Ages! The pride of the United States leaves the
wealth and finesse of the cities, and all returns of commerce and agricultu=
re,
and all the magnitude or geography or shows of exterior victory, to enjoy t=
he
breed of full-sized men, or one full-sized man unconquerable and simple.
The American poets
are to enclose old and new; for America is the race of races. Of them a bar=
d is
to be commensurate with a people. To him the other continents arrive as
contributions: he gives them reception for their sake and his own sake. His
spirit responds to his country's spirit: he incarnates its geography and
natural life and rivers and lakes. Mississippi with annual freshets and
changing chutes, Missouri and Columbia and Ohio and Saint Lawrence with the
Falls and beautiful masculine Hudson, do not embouchure where they spend
themselves more than they embouchure into him. The blue breadth over the in=
land
sea of Virginia and Maryland, and the sea off Massachusetts and Maine, and =
over
Manhattan Bay, and over Champlain and Erie, and over Ontario and Huron and
Michigan and Superior, and over the Texan and Mexican and Floridian and Cub=
an
seas, and over the seas off California and Oregon, is not tallied by the bl=
ue
breadth of the waters below more than the breadth of above and below is tal=
lied
by him. When the long Atlantic coast stretches longer, and the Pacific coast
stretches longer, he easily stretches with them north or south. He spans
between them also from east to west, and reflects what is between them. On =
him
rise solid growths that offset the growths of pine and cedar and hemlock an=
d live-oak
and locust and chestnut and cypress and hickory and lime-tree and cottonwood
and tulip-tree and cactus and wild-vine and tamarind and persimmon, and tan=
gles
as tangled as any cane-brake or swamp, and forests coated with transparent =
ice
and icicles, hanging from the boughs and crackling in the wind, and sides a=
nd
peaks of mountains, and pasturage sweet and free as savannah or upland or
prairie,--with flights and songs and screams that answer those of the
wild-pigeon and high-hold and orchard- oriole and coot and surf-duck and
red-shouldered-bawk and fish-hawk and white-ibis and Indian-hen and cat-owl=
and
water-pheasant and qua-bird and pied-sheldrake and blackbird and mocking-bi=
rd
and buzzard and condor and night-heron and eagle. To him the hereditary
countenance descends, both mother's and father's. To him enter the essences=
of
the real things and past and present events--of the enormous diversity of
temperature and agriculture and mines--the tribes of red aborigines--the
weather-beaten vessels entering new ports, or making landings on rocky
coasts--the first settlements north or south--the rapid stature and muscle-=
-the
haughty defiance of '76, and the war and peace and formation of the
constitution-- the union always surrounded by blatherers, and always calm a=
nd impregnable--the
perpetual coming of immigrants--the wharf-hemmed cities and superior
marine--the unsurveyed interior--the loghouses and clearings and wild anima=
ls
and hunters and trappers--the free commerce--the fisheries and whaling and
gold-digging--the endless gestations of new states--the convening of Congre=
ss
every December, the members duly coming up from all climates and the utterm=
ost
parts--the noble character of the young mechanics and of all free American
workmen and workwomen--the general ardour and friendliness and enterprise--=
the
perfect equality of the female with the male--the large amativeness--the fl=
uid
movement of the population--the factories and mercantile life and labour-sa=
ving
machinery-- the Yankee swap--the New York firemen and the target excursion-=
-the
Southern plantation life--the character of the north-east and of the north-=
west
and south-west-slavery, and the tremulous spreading of hands to protect it,=
and
the stern opposition to it which shall never cease till it ceases, or the
speaking of tongues and the moving of lips cease. For such the expression of
the American poet is to be transcendent and new. It is to be indirect, and =
not
direct or descriptive or epic. Its quality goes through these to much more.=
Let
the age and wars of other nations be chanted, and their eras and characters=
be
illustrated, and that finish the verse. Not so the great psalm of the repub=
lic.
Here the theme is creative, and has vista. Here comes one among the
well-beloved stone-cutters, and plans with decision and science, and sees t=
he
solid and beautiful forms of the future where there are now no solid forms.=
Of all nations, t=
he
United States, with veins full of poetical stuff, most needs poets, and will
doubtless have the greatest, and use them the greatest. Their Presidents sh=
all
not be their common referee so much as their poets shall. Of all mankind, t=
he
great poet is the equable man. Not in him, but off from him, things are
grotesque or eccentric, or fail of their sanity. Nothing out of its place is
good, and nothing in its place is bad. He bestows on every object or quality
its fit proportions, neither more nor less. He is the arbiter of the divers=
e,
and he is the key. He is the equaliser of his age and land: he supplies what
wants supplying, and checks what wants checking. If peace is the routine, o=
ut
of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty, building vast and
populous cities, encouraging agriculture and the arts and commerce--lighting
the study of man, the soul, immortality--federal, state or municipal
government, marriage, health, free-trade, intertravel by land and sea--noth=
ing
too close, nothing too far off,--the stars not too far off. In war, he is t=
he most
deadly force of the war. Who recruits him recruits horse and foot: he fetch=
es
parks of artillery, the best that engineer ever knew. If the time becomes
slothful and heavy, he knows how to arouse it: he can make every word he sp=
eaks
draw blood. Whatever stagnates in the flat of custom or obedience or
legislation, he never stagnates. Obedience does not master him, he masters =
it.
High up out of reach, he stands turning a concentrated light; he turns the
pivot with his finger; he baffles the swiftest runners as he stands, and ea=
sily
overtakes and envelops them. The time straying toward infidelity and
confections and persiflage he withholds by his steady faith; he spreads out=
his
dishes; he offers the sweet firm-fibred meat that grows men and women. His
brain is the ultimate brain. He is no arguer, he is judgment. He judges not=
as
the judge judges, but as the sun falling around a helpless thing. As he sees
the farthest, he has the most faith. His thoughts are the hymns of the prai=
se
of things. In the talk on the soul and eternity and God, off of his equal
plane, he is silent. He sees eternity less like a play with a prologue and
denouement: he sees eternity in men and women,--he does not see men and wom=
en
as dreams or dots. Faith is the antiseptic of the soul,--it pervades the co=
mmon
people and preserves them: they never give up believing and expecting and
trusting. There is that indescribable freshness and unconsciousness about an
illiterate person that humbles and mocks the power of the noblest expressive
genius. The poet sees for a certainty how one not a great artist may be jus=
t as
sacred and perfect as the greatest artist. The power to destroy or remould =
is
freely used by him, but never the power of attack. What is past is past. If=
he does
not expose superior models, and prove himself by every step he takes, he is=
not
what is wanted. The presence of the greatest poet conquers; not parleying or
struggling or any prepared attempts. Now he has passed that way, see after =
him!
there is not left any vestige of despair or misanthropy or cunning or
exclusiveness, or the ignominy of a nativity or colour, or delusion of hell=
or
the necessity of hell; and no man thenceforward shall be degraded for ignor=
ance
or weakness or sin.
The greatest poet
hardly knows pettiness or triviality. If he breathes into anything that was
before thought small, it dilates with the grandeur and life of the universe=
. He
is a seer--he is individual--he is complete in himself: the others are as g=
ood
as he; only he sees it, and they do not. He is not one of the chorus--he do=
es
not stop for any regulation--he is the President of regulation. What the
eyesight does to the rest he does to the rest. Who knows the curious myster=
y of
the eyesight? The other senses corroborate themselves, but this is removed =
from
any proof but its own, and foreruns the identities of the spiritual world. A
single glance of it mocks all the investigations of man, and all the
instruments and books of the earth, and all reasoning. What is marvellous? =
what
is unlikely? what is impossible or baseless or vague? after you have once j=
ust
opened the space of a peachpit, and given audience to far and near and to t=
he
sunset, and had all things enter with electric swiftness, softly and duly,
without confusion or jostling or jam.
The land and sea,=
the
animals, fishes, and birds, the sky of heaven and the orbs, the forests,
mountains, and rivers, are not small themes: but folks expect of the poet to
indicate more than the beauty and dignity which always attach to dumb real
objects,--they expect him to indicate the path between reality and their so=
uls.
Men and women perceive the beauty well enough--probably as well as he. The
passionate tenacity of hunters, woodmen, early risers, cultivators of garde=
ns
and orchards and fields, the love of healthy women for the manly form,
seafaring persons, drivers of horses, the passion for light and the open ai=
r,
all is an old varied sign of the unfailing perception of beauty, and of a
residence of the poetic, in outdoor people. They can never be assisted by p=
oets
to perceive: some may, but they never can. The poetic quality is not marsha=
lled
in rhyme or uniformity, or abstract addresses to things, nor in melancholy
complaints or good precepts, but is the life of these and much else, and is=
in
the soul. The profit of rhyme is that it drops seeds of a sweeter and more =
luxuriant
rhyme; and of uniformity, that it conveys itself into its own roots in the
ground out of sight. The rhyme and uniformity of perfect poems show the free
growth of metrical laws, and bud from them as unerringly and loosely as lil=
acs
or roses on a bush, and take shapes as compact as the shapes of chestnuts a=
nd
oranges and melons and pears, and shed the perfume impalpable to form. The
fluency and ornaments of the finest poems or music or orations or recitatio=
ns
are not independent, but dependent. All beauty comes from beautiful blood a=
nd a
beautiful brain. If the greatnesses are in conjunction in a man or woman, i=
t is
enough--the fact will prevail through the universe: but the gaggery and gil=
t of
a million years will not prevail. Who troubles himself about his ornaments =
or
fluency is lost. This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun and the
animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the
stupid and crazy, devote your income and labour to others, hate tyrants, ar=
gue
not concerning God, have patience and indulgence towards the people, take o=
ff
your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go fre=
ely
with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of
families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of y=
our
life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book,=
dismiss
whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, =
and
have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of=
its
lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and
joint of your body. The poet shall not spend his time in unneeded work. He
shall know that the ground is always ready ploughed and manured: others may=
not
know it, but he shall. He shall go directly to the creation. His trust shall
master the trust of everything he touches, and shall master all attachment.=
The known universe
has one complete lover, and that is the greatest poet. He consumes an etern=
al
passion, and is indifferent which chance happens, and which possible
contingency of fortune or misfortune, and persuades daily and hourly his
delicious pay. What balks or breaks others is fuel for his burning progress=
to
contact and amorous joy. Other proportions of the reception of pleasure dwi=
ndle
to nothing to his proportions. All expected from heaven or from the highest=
he
is rapport with in the sight of the daybreak, or a scene of the winter wood=
s,
or the presence of children playing, or with his arm round the neck of a ma=
n or
woman. His love, above all love, has leisure and expanse--he leaves room ah=
ead
of himself. He is no irresolute or suspicious lover--he is sure--he scorns
intervals. His experience and the showers and thrills are not for nothing.
Nothing can jar him: suffering and darkness cannot--death and fear cannot. =
To
him complaint and jealousy and envy are corpses buried and rotten in the
earth--he saw them buried. The sea is not surer of the shore, or the shore =
of
the sea, than he is of the fruition of his love, and of all perfection and
beauty.
The fruition of
beauty is no chance of hit or miss--it is inevitable as life--it is exact a=
nd
plumb as gravitation. From the eyesight proceeds another eyesight, and from=
the
hearing proceeds another hearing, and from the voice proceeds another voice,
eternally curious of the harmony of things with man. To these respond
perfections, not only in the committees that were supposed to stand for the
rest, but in the rest themselves just the same. These understand the law of
perfection in masses and floods--that its finish is to each for itself and
onward from itself--that it is profuse and impartial--that there is not a
minute of the light or dark, nor an acre of the earth or sea, without it--n=
or
any direction of the sky, nor any trade or employment, nor any turn of even=
ts.
This is the reason that about the proper expression of beauty there is
precision and balance,--one part does not need to be thrust above another. =
The
best singer is not the one who has the most lithe and powerful organ: the
pleasure of poems is not in them that take the handsomest measure and simil=
es
and sound.
Without effort, a=
nd
without exposing in the least how it is done, the greatest poet brings the
spirit of any or all events and passions and scenes and persons, some more =
and
some less, to bear on your individual character, as you hear or read. To do=
this
well is to compete with the laws that pursue and follow time. What is the
purpose must surely be there, and the clue of it must be there; and the
faintest indication is the indication of the best, and then becomes the
clearest indication. Past and present and future are not disjoined, but joi=
ned.
The greatest poet forms the consistence of what is to be from what has been=
and
is. He drags the dead out of their coffins, and stands them again on their
feet: he says to the past, Rise and walk before me that I may realise you. =
He
learns the lesson--he places himself where the future becomes present. The
greatest poet does not only dazzle his rays over character and scenes and p=
assions,--he
finally ascends and finishes all: he exhibits the pinnacles that no man can
tell what they are for or what is beyond--he glows a moment on the extremest
verge. He is most wonderful in his last half-hidden smile or frown: by that
flash of the moment of parting the one that sees it shall be encouraged or
terrified afterward for many years. The greatest poet does not moralise or =
make
applications of morals,--he knows the soul. The soul has that measureless p=
ride
which consists in never acknowledging any lessons but its own. But it has
sympathy as measureless as its pride, and the one balances the other, and
neither can stretch too far while it stretches in company with the other. T=
he
inmost secrets of art sleep with the twain. The greatest poet has lain close
betwixt both, and they are vital in his style and thoughts.
The art of art, t=
he
glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.
Nothing is better than simplicity,--nothing can make up for excess or for t=
he
lack of definiteness. To carry on the heave of impulse, and pierce intellec=
tual
depths, and give all subjects their articulations, are powers neither common
nor very uncommon. But to speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and
insousiance of the movements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the
sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside, is the flawless
triumph of art. If you, have looked on him who has achieved it, you have lo=
oked
on one of the masters of the artists of all nations and times. You shall not
contemplate the flight of the grey-gull over the bay, or the mettlesome act=
ion
of the blood-horse, or the tall leaning of sunflowers on their stalk, or the
appearance of the sun journeying through heaven, or the appearance of the m=
oon
afterward, with any more satisfaction than you shall contemplate him. The
greatest poet has less a marked style, and is more the channel of thoughts =
and things
without increase or diminution, and is the free channel of himself. He swea=
rs
to his art,--I will not be meddlesome, I will not have in my writing any
elegance or effect or originality to hang in the way between me and the rest
like curtains. I will have nothing hang in the way, not the richest curtain=
s.
What I tell I tell for precisely what it is. Let who may exalt or startle or
fascinate or soothe, I will have purposes as health or heat or snow has, an=
d be
as regardless of observation. What I experience or pourtray shall go from my
composition without a shred of my composition. You shall stand by my side, =
and
look in the mirror with me.
The old red blood=
and
stainless gentility of great poets will be proved by their unconstraint. A
heroic person walks at his ease through and out of that custom or precedent=
or
authority that suits him not. Of the traits of the brotherhood of writers,
savans, musicians, inventors, and artists, nothing is finer than silent
defiance advancing from new free forms. In the need of poems, philosophy,
politics, mechanism, science, behaviour, the craft of art, an appropriate
native grand opera, shipcraft or any craft, he is greatest for ever and for
ever who contributes the greatest original practical example. The cleanest
expression is that which finds no sphere worthy of itself, and makes one.
The messages of g=
reat
poets to each man and woman are,--Come to us on equal terms, only then can =
you
understand us. We are no better than you; what we enclose you enclose, what=
we
enjoy you may enjoy. Did you suppose there could be only one Supreme? We af=
firm
there can be unnumbered Supremes, and that one does not countervail another=
any
more than one eyesight countervails another--and that men can be good or gr=
and
only of the consciousness of their supremacy within them. What do you think=
is
the grandeur of storms and dismemberments, and the deadliest battles and wr=
ecks,
and the wildest fury of the elements, and the power of the sea, and the mot=
ion
of nature, and of the throes of human desires, and dignity and hate and lov=
e?
It is that something in the soul which says,--Rage on, whirl on, I tread ma=
ster
here and everywhere; master of the spasms of the sky and of the shatter of =
the
sea, master of nature and passion and death, and of all terror and all pain=
.
The American bards
shall be marked for generosity and affection and for encouraging competitor=
s:
they shall be kosmos--without monopoly or secrecy--glad to pass anything to=
any
one--hungry for equals night and day. They shall not be careful of riches a=
nd
privilege,--they shall be riches and privilege: they shall perceive who the
most affluent man is. The most affluent man is he that confronts all the sh=
ows
he sees by equivalents out of the stronger wealth of himself. The American =
bard
shall delineate no class of persons, nor one or two out of the strata of
interests, nor love most nor truth most, nor the soul most nor the body mos=
t;
and not be for the eastern states more than the western, or the northern st=
ates
more than the southern.
Exact science and=
its
practical movements are no checks on the greatest poet, but always his
encouragement and support. The outset and remembrance are there--there the =
arms
that lifted him first and brace him best--there he returns after all his go=
ings
and comings. The sailor and traveller, the anatomist, chemist, astronomer,
geologist, phrenologist, spiritualist, mathematician, historian, and
lexicographer, are not poets; but they are the lawgivers of poets, and their
construction underlies the structure of every perfect poem. No matter what
rises or is uttered, they send the seed of the conception of it: of them an=
d by
them stand the visible proofs of souls. If there shall be love and content
between the father and the son, and if the greatness of the son is the exud=
ing
of the greatness of the father, there shall be love between the poet and the
man of demonstrable science. In the beauty of poems are the tuft and final
applause of science.
Great is the fait=
h of
the flush of knowledge, and of the investigation of the depths of qualities=
and
things. Cleaving and circling here swells the soul of the poet: yet is
president of itself always. The depths are fathomless, and therefore calm. =
The
innocence and nakedness are resumed-- they are neither modest nor immodest.=
The
whole theory of the special and supernatural, and all that was twined with =
it
or educed out of it, departs as a dream. What has ever happened, what happe=
ns,
and whatever may or shall happen, the vital laws enclose all: they are
sufficient for any case and for all cases--none to be hurried or retarded--=
any
miracle of affairs or persons inadmissible in the vast clear scheme where e=
very
motion, and every spear of grass, and the frames and spirits of men and wom=
en,
and all that concerns them, are unspeakably perfect miracles, all referring=
to
all, and each distinct and in its place. It is also not consistent with the
reality of the soul to admit that there is anything in the known universe m=
ore divine
than men and women.
Men and women, and
the earth and all upon it, are simply to be taken as they are, and the
investigation of their past and present and future shall be unintermitted, =
and
shall be done with perfect candour. Upon this basis philosophy speculates, =
ever
looking toward the poet, ever regarding the eternal tendencies of all toward
happiness, never inconsistent with what is clear to the senses and to the s=
oul.
For the eternal tendencies of all toward happiness make the only point of s=
ane
philosophy. Whatever comprehends less than that--whatever is less than the =
laws
of light and of astronomical motion--or less than the laws that follow the
thief, the liar, the glutton, and the drunkard, through this life, and
doubtless afterward-- or less than vast stretches of time, or the slow
formation of density, or the patient upheaving of strata--is of no account.
Whatever would put God in a poem or system of philosophy as contending agai=
nst
some being or influence is also of no account. Sanity and ensemble characte=
rise
the great master:--spoilt in one principle, all is spoilt. The great master=
has
nothing to do with miracles. He sees health for himself in being one of the=
mass--he
sees the hiatus in singular eminence. To the perfect shape comes common gro=
und.
To be under the general law is great, for that is to correspond with it. The
master knows that he is unspeakably great, and that all are unspeakably
great--that nothing, for instance, is greater than to conceive children, and
bring them up well--that to be is just as great as to perceive or tell.
In the make of the
great masters the idea of political liberty is indispensable. Liberty takes=
the
adherence of heroes wherever men and women exist; but never takes any adher=
ence
or welcome from the rest more than from poets. They are the voice and
exposition of liberty. They out of ages are worthy the grand idea,--to them=
it
is confided, and they must sustain it. Nothing has precedence of it, and
nothing can warp or degrade it. The attitude of great poets is to cheer up
slaves and horrify despots. The turn of their necks, the sound of their fee=
t,
the motions of their wrists, are full of hazard to the one and hope to the
other. Come nigh them a while, and, though they neither speak nor advise, y=
ou
shall learn the faithful American lesson. Liberty is poorly served by men w=
hose
good intent is quelled from one failure or two failures or any number of
failures, or from the casual indifference or ingratitude of the people, or =
from
the sharp show of the tushes of power, or the bringing to bear soldiers and
cannon or any penal statutes. Liberty relies upon itself, invites no one,
promises nothing, sits in calmness and light, is positive and composed, and
knows no discouragement. The battle rages with many a loud alarm and freque=
nt advance
and retreat--the enemy triumphs--the prison, the handcuffs, the iron neckla=
ce
and anklet, the scaffold, garrote, and lead-balls, do their work--the cause=
is
asleep--the strong throats are choked with their own blood--the young men d=
rop
their eyelashes toward the ground when they pass each other ... and is libe=
rty
gone out of that place? No, never. When liberty goes, it is not the first to
go, nor the second or third to go: it waits for all the rest to go--it is t=
he
last. When the memories of the old martyrs are faded utterly away--when the
large names of patriots are laughed at in the public halls from the lips of=
the
orators--when the boys are no more christened after the same, but christened
after tyrants and traitors instead--when the laws of the free are grudgingly
permitted, and laws for informers and blood-money are sweet to the taste of=
the
people-- when I and you walk abroad upon the earth, stung with compassion at
the sight of numberless brothers answering our equal friendship, and callin=
g no
man master--and when we are elated with noble joy at the sight of slaves-- =
when
the soul retires in the cool communion of the night, and surveys its experi=
ence,
and has much ecstasy over the word and deed that put back a helpless innoce=
nt
person into the gripe of the gripers or into any cruel inferiority--when th=
ose
in all parts of these states who could easier realise the true American
character, but do not yet[1]--when the swarms of cringers, suckers, doughfa=
ces,
lice of politics, planners of sly involutions for their own preferment to c=
ity
offices or state legislatures or the judiciary or Congress or the Presidenc=
y,
obtain a response of love and natural deference from the people, whether th=
ey
get the offices or no-- when it is better to be a bound booby and rogue in
office at a high salary than the poorest free mechanic or farmer, with his =
hat
unmoved from his head, and firm eyes, and a candid and generous heart--and =
when
servility by town or state or the federal government, or any oppression on a
large scale or small scale, can be tried on without its own punishment
following duly after in exact proportion, against the smallest chance of
escape--or rather when all life and all the souls of men and women are
discharged from any part of the earth--then only shall the instinct of libe=
rty
be discharged from that part of the earth.
[Footnote 1: This
clause is obviously imperfect in some respect: it is here reproduced verbat=
im
from the American edition.]
As the attributes=
of
the poets of the kosmos concentre in the real body and soul and in the plea=
sure
of things, they possess the superiority of genuineness over all fiction and
romance. As they emit themselves, facts are showered over with light--the
daylight is lit with more volatile light--also the deep between the setting=
and
rising sun goes deeper many- fold. Each precise object or condition or
combination or process exhibits a beauty: the multiplication-table its--old=
age
its--the carpenter's trade its--the grand opera its: the huge-hulled
clean-shaped New York clipper at sea under steam or full sail gleams with
unmatched beauty--the American circles and large harmonies of government gl=
eam
with theirs, and the commonest definite intentions and actions with theirs.=
The
poets of the kosmos advance through all interpositions and coverings and
turmoils and stratagems to first principles. They are of use--they dissolve
poverty from its need, and riches from its conceit. You large proprietor, t=
hey
say, shall not realise or perceive more than any one else. The owner of the=
library
is not he who holds a legal title to it, having bought and paid for it. Any=
one
and every one is owner of the library who can read the same through all the
varieties of tongues and subjects and styles, and in whom they enter with e=
ase,
and take residence and force toward paternity and maternity, and make supple
and powerful and rich and large. These American states, strong and healthy =
and
accomplished, shall receive no pleasure from violations of natural models, =
and
must not permit them. In paintings or mouldings or carvings in mineral or w=
ood,
or in the illustrations of books or newspapers, or in any comic or tragic
prints, or in the patterns of woven stuffs, or anything to beautify rooms or
furniture or costumes, or to put upon cornices or monuments or on the prows=
or
sterns of ships, or to put anywhere before the human eye indoors or out, th=
at
which distorts honest shapes, or which creates unearthly beings or places o=
r contingencies,
is a nuisance and revolt. Of the human form especially, it is so great it m=
ust
never be made ridiculous. Of ornaments to a work, nothing outré can =
be
allowed; but those ornaments can be allowed that conform to the perfect fac=
ts
of the open air, and that flow out of the nature of the work, and come
irrepressibly from it, and are necessary to the completion of the work. Most
works are most beautiful without ornament. Exaggerations will be revenged in
human physiology. Clean and vigorous children are conceived only in those
communities where the models of natural forms are public every day. Great
genius and the people of these states must never be demeaned to romances. As
soon as histories are properly told, there is no more need of romances.
The great poets a=
re
also to be known by the absence in them of tricks, and by the justification=
of
perfect personal candour. Then folks echo a new cheap joy and a divine voice
leaping from their brains. How beautiful is candour! All faults may be forg=
iven
of him who has perfect candour. Henceforth let no man of us lie, for we have
seen that openness wins the inner and outer world, and that there is no sin=
gle
exception, and that never since our earth gathered itself in a mass has dec=
eit
or subterfuge or prevarication attracted its smallest particle or the faint=
est
tinge of a shade--and that through the enveloping wealth and rank of a stat=
e or
the whole republic of states a sneak or sly person shall be discovered and =
despised--and
that the soul has never been once fooled and never can be fooled--and thrif=
t without
the loving nod of the soul is only a foetid puff--and there never grew up in
any of the continents of the globe, nor upon any planet or satellite or sta=
r,
nor upon the asteroids, nor in any part of ethereal space, nor in the midst=
of
density, nor under the fluid wet of the sea, nor in that condition which
precedes the birth of babes, nor at any time during the changes of life, no=
r in
that condition that follows what we term death, nor in any stretch of abeya=
nce
or action afterward of vitality, nor in any process of formation or reforma=
tion
anywhere, a being whose instinct hated the truth.
Extreme caution or
prudence, the soundest organic health, large hope and comparison and fondne=
ss
for women and children, large alimentiveness and destructiveness and causal=
ity,
with a perfect sense of the oneness of nature, and the propriety of the same
spirit applied to human affairs-- these are called up of the float of the b=
rain
of the world to be parts of the greatest poet from his birth. Caution seldom
goes far enough. It has been thought that the prudent citizen was the citiz=
en
who applied himself to solid gains, and did well for himself and his family,
and completed a lawful life without debt or crime. The greatest poet sees a=
nd
admits these economies as he sees the economies of food and sleep, but has
higher notions of prudence than to think he gives much when he gives a few
slight attentions at the latch of the gate. The premises of the prudence of
life are not the hospitality of it, or the ripeness and harvest of it. Beyo=
nd the
independence of a little sum laid aside for burial-money, and of a few clap=
boards
around and shingles overhead on a lot of American soil owned, and the easy
dollars that supply the year's plain clothing and meals, the melancholy pru=
dence
of the abandonment of such a great being as a man is to the toss and pallor=
of
years of money-making, with all their scorching days and icy nights, and all
their stifling deceits and underhanded dodgings, or infinitesimals of parlo=
urs,
or shameless stuffing while others starve,--and all the loss of the bloom a=
nd
odour of the earth, and of the flowers and atmosphere, and of the sea, and =
of
the true taste of the women and men you pass or have to do with in youth or
middle age, and the issuing sickness and desperate revolt at the close of a
life without elevation or naïveté, and the ghastly chatter of a
death without serenity or majesty,--is the great fraud upon modern civilisa=
tion
and forethought; blotching the surface and system which civilisation undeni=
ably
drafts, and moistening with tears the immense features it spreads and sprea=
ds
with such velocity before the reached kisses of the soul. Still the right
explanation remains to be made about prudence. The prudence of the mere wea=
lth
and respectability of the most esteemed life appears too faint for the eye =
to
observe at all when little and large alike drop quietly aside at the though=
t of
the prudence suitable for immortality. What is wisdom that fills the thinne=
ss
of a year or seventy or eighty years, to wisdom spaced out by ages, and com=
ing
back at a certain time with strong reinforcements and rich presents and the=
clear
faces of wedding-guests as far as you can look in every direction running g=
aily
toward you? Only the soul is of itself--all else has reference to what ensu=
es.
All that a person does or thinks is of consequence. Not a move can a man or
woman make that affects him or her in a day or a month, or any part of the
direct lifetime or the hour of death, but the same affects him or her onward
afterward through the indirect lifetime. The indirect is always as great and
real as the direct. The spirit receives from the body just as much as it gi=
ves
to the body. Not one name of word or deed--not of the putrid veins of glutt=
ons
or rum-drinkers-- not peculation or cunning or betrayal or murder--no
serpentine poison of those that seduce women--not the foolish yielding of
women--not of the attainment of gain by discreditable means--not any nastin=
ess
of appetite-- not any harshness of officers to men, or judges to prisoners,=
or
fathers to sons, or sons to fathers, or of husbands to wives, or bosses to
their boys--not of greedy looks or malignant wishes--nor any of the wiles p=
ractised
by people upon themselves--ever is or ever can be stamped on the programme,=
but
it is duly realised and returned, and that returned in further performances,
and they returned again. Nor can the push of charity or personal force ever=
be
anything else than the profoundest reason, whether it bring arguments to ha=
nd
or no. No specification is necessary--to add or subtract or divide is in va=
in.
Little or big, learned or unlearned, white or black, legal or illegal, sick=
or
well, from the first inspiration down the windpipe to the last expiration o=
ut
of it, all that a male or female does that is vigorous and benevolent and c=
lean
is so much sure profit to him or her in the unshakable order of the universe
and through the whole scope of it for ever. If the savage or felon is wise,=
it
is well--if the greatest poet or savant is wise, it is simply the same--if =
the President
or chief justice is wise, it is the same--if the young mechanic or farmer is
wise, it is no more or less. The interest will come round--all will come ro=
und.
All the best actions of war and peace--all help given to relatives and
strangers, and the poor and old and sorrowful, and young children and widows
and the sick, and to all shunned persons--all furtherance of fugitives and =
of
the escape of slaves--all the self-denial that stood steady and aloof on
wrecks, and saw others take the seats of the boats--all offering of substan=
ce
or life for the good old cause, or for a friend's sake or opinion's sake--a=
ll
pains of enthusiasts scoffed at by their neighbours--all the vast sweet love
and precious suffering of mothers--all honest men baffled in strifes record=
ed
or unrecorded--all the grandeur and good of the few ancient nations whose
fragments of annals we inherit--and all the good of the hundreds of far
mightier and more ancient nations unknown to us by name or date or
location--all that was ever manfully begun, whether it succeeded or no--all
that has at any time been well suggested out of the divine heart of man, or=
by
the divinity of his mouth, or by the shaping of his great hands--and all th=
at
is well thought or done this day on any part of the surface of the globe, o=
r on
any of the wandering stars or fixed stars by those there as we are here--or
that is henceforth to be well thought or done by you, whoever you are, or by
any one--these singly and wholly inured at their time, and inured now, and =
will
inure always, to the identities from which they sprung or shall spring. Did=
you
guess any of them lived only its moment? The world does not so exist-- no
parts, palpable or impalpable, so exist--no result exists now without being
from its long antecedent result, and that from its antecedent, and so backw=
ard
without the farthest mentionable spot coining a bit nearer the beginning th=
an
any other spot.... Whatever satisfies the soul is truth. The prudence of the
greatest poet answers at last the craving and glut of the soul, is not
contemptuous of less ways of prudence if they conform to its ways, puts off
nothing, permits no let-up for its own case or any case, has no particular
Sabbath or judgment-day, divides not the living from the dead or the righte=
ous
from the unrighteous, is satisfied with the present, matches every thought =
or
act by its correlative, knows no possible forgiveness or deputed
atonement--knows that the young man who composedly perilled his life and lo=
st
it has done exceeding well for himself, while the man who has not perilled =
his
life, and retains it to old age in riches and ease, has perhaps achieved
nothing for himself worth mentioning--and that only that person has no great
prudence to learn who has learnt to prefer long-lived things, and favours b=
ody
and soul the same, and perceives the indirect assuredly following the direc=
t,
and what evil or good he does leaping onward and waiting to meet him again-=
-and
who in his spirit in any emergency whatever neither hurries nor avoids deat=
h.
The direct trial =
of
him who would be the greatest poet is to-day. If he does not flood himself =
with
the immediate age as with vast oceanic tides-- and if he does not attract h=
is
own land body and soul to himself, and hang on its neck with incomparable
love--and if he be not himself the age transfigured--and if to him is not
opened the eternity which gives similitude to all periods and locations and
processes and animate and inanimate forms, and which is the bond of time, a=
nd
rises up from its inconceivable vagueness and infiniteness in the swimming
shape of to-day, and is held by the ductile anchors of life, and makes the
present spot the passage from what was to what shall be, and commits itself=
to
the representation of this wave of an hour, and this one of the sixty beaut=
iful
children of the wave--let him merge in the general run and wait his develop=
ment....
Still, the final test of poems or any character or work remains. The presci=
ent
poet projects himself centuries ahead, and judges performer or performance
after the changes of time. Does it live through them? Does it still hold on
untired? Will the same style, and the direction of genius to similar points=
, be
satisfactory now? Has no new discovery in science, or arrival at superior
planes of thought and judgment and behaviour, fixed him or his so that eith=
er
can be looked down upon? Have the marches of tens and hundreds and thousand=
s of
years made willing detours to the right hand and the left hand for his sake=
? Is
he beloved long and long after he is buried? Does the young man think often=
of
him? and the young woman think often of him? and do the middle-aged and the=
old
think of him?
A great poem is f=
or
ages and ages, in common, and for all degrees and complexions, and all
departments and sects, and for a woman as much as a man, and a man as much =
as a
woman. A great poem is no finish to a man or woman, but rather a beginning.=
Has
any one fancied he could sit at last under some due authority, and rest
satisfied with explanations, and realise and be content and full? To no such
terminus does the greatest poet bring-- he brings neither cessation nor
sheltered fatness and ease. The touch of him tells in action. Whom he takes=
he
takes with firm sure grasp into live regions previously unattained. Thencef=
orward
is no rest: they see the space and ineffable sheen that turn the old spots =
and
lights into dead vacuums. The companion of him beholds the birth and progre=
ss
of stars, and learns one of the meanings. Now there shall be a man cohered =
out
of tumult and chaos. The elder encourages the younger, and shows him how: t=
hey
two shall launch off fearlessly together till the new world fits an orbit f=
or
itself, and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars, and sweeps
through the ceaseless rings, and shall never be quiet again.
There will soon b=
e no
more priests. Their work is done. They may wait a while--perhaps a generati=
on
or two,--dropping off by degrees. A superior breed shall take their place--=
the
gangs of kosmos and prophets en masse shall take their place. A new order s=
hall
arise; and they shall be the priests of man, and every man shall be his own
priest. The churches built under their umbrage shall be the churches of men=
and
women. Through the divinity of themselves shall the kosmos and the new bree=
d of
poets be interpreters of men and women and of all events and things. They s=
hall
find their inspiration in real objects to-day, symptoms of the past and fut=
ure.
They shall not deign to defend immortality, or God, or the perfection of th=
ings,
or liberty, or the exquisite beauty and reality of the soul. They shall ari=
se
in America, and be responded to from the remainder of the earth.
The English langu=
age
befriends the grand American expression--it is brawny enough, and limber and
full enough. On the tough stock of a race who, through all change of
circumstance, was never without the idea of political liberty, which is the
animus of all liberty, it has attracted the terms of daintier and gayer and
subtler and more elegant tongues. It is the powerful language of resistance=
--it
is the dialect of common sense. It is the speech of the proud and melancholy
races, and of all who aspire. It is the chosen tongue to express growth, fa=
ith,
self-esteem, freedom, justice, equality, friendliness, amplitude, prudence,
decision, and courage. It is the medium that shall well nigh express the
inexpressible.
No great literatu=
re,
nor any like style of behaviour or oratory or social intercourse or househo=
ld
arrangements or public institutions, or the treatment by bosses of employed
people, nor executive detail, or detail of the army or navy, nor spirit of
legislation, or courts or police, or tuition or architecture, or songs or
amusements, or the costumes of young men, can long elude the jealous and
passionate instinct of American standards. Whether or no the sign appears f=
rom
the mouths of the people, it throbs a live interrogation in every freeman's=
and
freewoman's heart after that which passes by, or this built to remain. Is it
uniform with my country? Are its disposals without ignominious distinctions=
? Is
it for the ever-growing communes of brothers and lovers, large, well united,
proud beyond the old models, generous beyond all models? Is it something gr=
own fresh
out of the fields, or drawn from the sea, for use to me, to-day, here? I kn=
ow
that what answers for me, an American, must answer for any individual or na=
tion
that serves for a part of my materials. Does this answer? or is it without
reference to universal needs? or sprung of the needs of the less developed =
society
of special ranks? or old needs of pleasure overlaid by modern science and
forms? Does this acknowledge liberty with audible and absolute acknowledgme=
nt,
and set slavery at nought, for life and death? Will it help breed one
good-shaped man, and a woman to be his perfect and independent mate? Does it
improve manners? Is it for the nursing of the young of the republic? Does it
solve readily with the sweet milk of the breasts of the mother of many
children? Has it too the old, ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality? Does=
it
look with the same love on the last-born and on those hardening toward stat=
ure,
and on the errant, and on those who disdain all strength of assault outside=
of their
own?
The poems distill=
ed
from other poems will probably pass away. The coward will surely pass away.=
The
expectation of the vital and great can only be satisfied by the demeanour of
the vital and great. The swarms of the polished, deprecating, and reflector=
s,
and the polite, float off and leave no remembrance. America prepares with
composure and goodwill for the visitors that have sent word. It is not
intellect that is to be their warrant and welcome. The talented, the artist,
the ingenious, the editor, the statesman, the erudite--they are not
unappreciated--they fall in their place and do their work. The soul of the
nation also does its work. No disguise can pass on it--no disguise can conc=
eal
from it. It rejects none, it permits all. Only toward as good as itself and
toward the like of itself will it advance half-way. An individual is as sup=
erb
as a nation when he has the qualities which make a superb nation. The soul =
of
the largest and wealthiest and proudest nation may well go half-way to meet
that of its poets. The signs are effectual. There is no fear of mistake. If=
the
one is true, the other is true. The proof of a poet is that his country abs=
orbs
him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.
[Script: Meantime,
dear friend, Farewell, Walt Whitman.]
STARTING FROM PAUMANOK.=
span>
1.
Starting from
fish-shape Paumanok,[1] where I was born, Well-begotten, and raised by a
perfect mother; After roaming many lands--lover of populous pavements; Dwel=
ler
in Mannahatta,[2] city of ships, my city,--or on southern savannas; Or a
soldier camped, or carrying my knapsack and gun--or a miner in =
California;
Or rude in my home in Dakotah's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the =
spring;
Or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess, Far from the clank of
crowds, intervals passing, rapt and happy; Aware of the fresh free giver, t=
he
flowing Missouri--aware of mighty =
Niagara
Aware of the buffalo herds, grazing the plains--the hirsute and strong-
2.
Victory, union,
faith, identity, time, Yourself, the present and future lands, the indissol=
uble
compacts, riches, =
mystery,
Eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports.
This, then, is li=
fe; Here
is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions.
How curious! how
real! Under foot the divine soil--over head the sun.
See, revolving, t=
he
globe; The ancestor-continents, away, grouped together; The present and fut=
ure
continents, north and south, with the isthmus =
between.
See, vast trackle=
ss
spaces; As in a dream, they change, they swiftly fill; Countless masses deb=
ouch
upon them; They are now covered with the foremost people, arts, institution=
s,
known.
See, projected
through time, For me an audience interminable.
With firm and reg=
ular
step they wend--they never stop, Successions of men, Americanos, a hundred
millions; One generation playing its part, and passing on, Another generati=
on
playing its part, and passing on in its turn, With faces turned sideways or
backward towards me, to listen, With eyes retrospective towards me.
3.
Americanos!
conquerors! marches humanitarian; Foremost! century marches! Libertad! mass=
es! For
you a programme of chants.
Chants of the
prairies; Chants of the long-running Mississippi, and down to the Mexican S=
ea; Chants
of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, and Minnesota; Chants going fo=
rth
from the centre, from Kansas, and thence, equidistant, Shooting in pulses of
fire, ceaseless, to vivify all.
4.
In the Year 80 of=
the
States,[3] My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this a=
ir, Born
here of parents born here, from parents the same, and their parents =
the
same, I, now thirty-six years old, in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease=
not
till death.
Creeds and school=
s in
abeyance, (Retiring back a while, sufficed at what they are, but never
forgotten.)
I harbour, for go=
od
or bad--I permit to speak, at every hazard-- Nature now without check, with
original energy.
5.
Take my leaves,
America! take them South, and take them North! Make welcome for them
everywhere, for they are your own offspring; Surround them, East and West! =
for
they would surround you; And you precedents! connect lovingly with them, for
they connect lovingly =
with
you.
I conned old time=
s; I
sat studying at the feet of the great masters: Now, if eligible, O that the
great masters might return and study me!
In the name of th=
ese
States, shall I scorn the antique? Why, these are the children of the antiq=
ue,
to justify it.
6.
Dead poets,
philosophs, priests, Martyrs, artists, inventors, governments long since, L=
anguage-shapers
on other shores, Nations once powerful, now reduced, withdrawn, or desolate=
, I
dare not proceed till I respectfully credit what you have left, wafted =
hither:
I have perused it--own it is admirable, (moving awhile among it;) Think not=
hing
can ever be greater--nothing can ever deserve more than it =
deserves;
Regarding it all intently a long while, then dismissing it, I stand in my
place, with my own day, here.
Here lands female=
and
male; Here the heirship and heiress-ship of the world--here the flame of =
materials;
Here spirituality, the translatress, the openly-avowed, The ever-tending, t=
he
finale of visible forms; The satisfier, after due long-waiting, now advanci=
ng, Yes,
here comes my mistress, the Soul.
7.
The SOUL! For ever
and for ever--longer than soil is brown and solid--longer than =
water
ebbs and flows.
I will make the p=
oems
of materials, for I think they are to be the most =
spiritual
poems; And I will make the poems of my body and of mortality, For I think I
shall then supply myself with the poems of my soul, and of =
immortality.
I will make a song
for these States, that no one State may under any =
circumstances
be subjected to another State; And I will make a song that there shall be
comity by day and by night =
between
all the States, and between any two of them; And I will make a song for the
ears of the President, full of weapons with =
menacing
points, And behind the weapons countless dissatisfied faces: And a song mak=
e I,
of the One formed out of all; The fanged and glittering one whose head is o=
ver
all; Resolute, warlike one, including and over all; However high the head of
any else, that head is over all.
I will acknowledge
contemporary lands; I will trail the whole geography of the globe, and salu=
te
courteously every =
city
large and small; And employments! I will put in my poems, that with you is
heroism, upon =
land
and sea--And I will report all heroism from an American point =
of
view; And sexual organs and acts! do you concentrate in me--for I am determ=
ined
=
to
tell you with courageous clear voice, to prove you illustrious.
I will sing the s=
ong
of companionship; I will show what alone must finally compact these; I beli=
eve
These are to found their own ideal of manly love, indicating it =
in
me; I will therefore let flame from me the burning fires that were threaten=
ing =
to
consume me; I will lift what has too long kept down those smouldering fires=
; I
will give them complete abandonment; I will write the evangel-poem of comra=
des
and of love; For who but I should understand love, with all its sorrow and =
joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?
8.
I am the credulous
man of qualities, ages, races; I advance from the people en masse in their =
own
spirit; Here is what sings unrestricted faith. Omnes! Omnes! let others ign=
ore
what they may; I make the poem of evil also--I commemorate that part also; =
I am
myself just as much evil as good, and my nation is--And I say there is =
in
fact no evil, Or if there is, I say it is just as important to you, to the
land, or to =
me,
as anything else.
I too, following
many, and followed by many, inaugurate a Religion--I too =
go
to the wars; It may be I am destined to utter the loudest cries thereof, the
winner's =
pealing
shouts; Who knows? they may rise from me yet, and soar above everything.
Each is not for i=
ts
own sake; I say the whole earth, and all the stars in the sky, are for
religion's =
sake.
I say no man has =
ever
yet been half devout enough; None has ever yet adored or worshipped half
enough; None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain t=
he =
future
is.
I say that the re=
al
and permanent grandeur of these States must be their =
religion;
Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur; Nor character, nor life
worthy the name, without religion; Nor land, nor man or woman, without
religion.
9.
What are you doin=
g,
young man? Are you so earnest--so given up to literature, science, art, amo=
urs?
These ostensible realities, politics, points? Your ambition or business,
whatever it may be?
It is well--Again=
st
such I say not a word--I am their poet also; But behold! such swiftly
subside--burnt up for religion's sake; For not all matter is fuel to heat,
impalpable flame, the essential life of =
the
earth, Any more than such are to religion.
10.
What do you seek,=
so
pensive and silent? What do you need, Camerado? Dear son! do you think it is
love?
Listen, dear
son--listen, America, daughter or son! It is a painful thing to love a man =
or
woman to excess--and yet it =
satisfies--it
is great; But there is something else very great--it makes the whole coinci=
de; It,
magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands, sweeps and =
provides
for all.
11.
Know you: to drop=
in
the earth the germs of a greater religion, The following chants, each for i=
ts
kind, I sing.
My comrade! For y=
ou,
to share with me, two greatnesses--and a third one, rising =
inclusive
and more resplendent, The greatness of Love and Democracy--and the greatnes=
s of
Religion.
Mélange mi=
ne
own! the unseen and the seen; Mysterious ocean where the streams empty; Pro=
phetic
spirit of materials shifting and flickering around me; Living beings,
identities, now doubtless near us in the air, that we know =
not
of; Contact daily and hourly that will not release me; These selecting--the=
se,
in hints, demanded of me.
Not he with a dai=
ly
kiss onward from childhood kissing me Has winded and twisted around me that
which holds me to him, Any more than I am held to the heavens, to the spiri=
tual
world, And to the identities of the Gods, my lovers, faithful and true, Aft=
er
what they have done to me, suggesting themes.
O such themes!
Equalities! O amazement of things! O divine average! O warblings under the
sun--ushered, as now, or at noon, or setting! O strain, musical, flowing
through ages--now reaching hither, I take to your reckless and composite
chords--I add to them, and cheerfully =
pass
them forward.
12.
As I have walked =
in
Alabama my morning walk, I have seen where the she-bird, the mocking-bird, =
sat
on her nest in the =
briars,
hatching her brood. I have seen the he-bird also; I have paused to hear him,
near at hand, inflating his throat, and joyfully =
singing.
And while I pause=
d,
it came to me that what he really sang for was not =
there
only, Nor for his mate nor himself only, nor all sent back by the echoes; B=
ut
subtle, clandestine, away beyond, A charge transmitted, and gift occult, for
those being born.
13.
Democracy! Near at
hand to you a throat is now inflating itself and joyfully singing. Ma femme=
! For
the brood beyond us and of us, For those who belong here, and those to come=
, I,
exultant, to be ready for them, will now shake out carols stronger and =
haughtier
than have ever yet been heard upon earth.
I will make the s=
ongs
of passion, to give them their way, And your songs, outlawed offenders--for=
I
scan you with kindred eyes, and =
carry
you with me the same as any.
I will make the t=
rue
poem of riches,-- To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres, and g=
oes
forward, and =
is
not dropped by death.
I will effuse ego=
tism,
and show it underlying all--and I will be the bard =
of
personality; And I will show of male and female that either is but the equa=
l of
the =
other;
And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present--and can be =
none
in the future; And I will show that, whatever happens to anybody, it may be
turned to beautiful results--and I will show that nothing can happen more
beautiful =
than
death; And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are=
=
compact,
And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as =
profound
as any.
I will not make p=
oems
with reference to parts; But I will make leaves, poems, poemets, songs, say=
s,
thoughts, with =
reference
to ensemble: And I will not sing with reference to a day, but with referenc=
e to
all =
days;
And I will not make a poem, nor the least part of a poem, but has reference=
=
to
the soul; Because, having looked at the objects of the universe, I find the=
re
is no =
one,
nor any particle of one, but has reference to the soul.
14.
Was somebody aski=
ng
to see the Soul? See! your own shape and countenance--persons, substances,
beasts, the =
trees,
the running rivers, the rocks and sands.
All hold spiritual
joys, and afterwards loosen them: How can the real body ever die, and be
buried?
Of your real body,
and any man's or woman's real body, Item for item, it will elude the hands =
of
the corpse-cleaners, and pass to =
fitting
spheres, Carrying what has accrued to it from the moment of birth to the mo=
ment
of =
death.
Not the types set=
up
by the printer return their impression, the meaning, =
the
main concern, Any more than a man's substance and life, or a woman's substa=
nce
and life, =
return
in the body and the soul, Indifferently before death and after death.
Behold! the body
includes and is the meaning, the main concern--and =
includes
and is the soul; Whoever you are! how superb and how divine is your body, or
any part of it.
15.
Whoever you are! =
to
you endless announcements.
Daughter of the
lands, did you wait for your poet? Did you wait for one with a flowing mouth
and indicative hand?
Toward the male of
the States, and toward the female of the States, Live words--words to the l=
ands.
O the lands! interlinked, food-yielding lands! Land of coal and iron! Land =
of
gold! Lands of cotton, sugar, rice! Land of wheat, beef, pork! Land of wool=
and
hemp! Land of the apple and =
grape!
Land of the pastoral plains, the grass-fields of the world! Land of those <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
sweet-aired
interminable plateaus! Land of the herd, the garden, the healthy house of
adobie! Lands where the north-west Columbia winds, and where the south-west=
=
Colorado
winds! Land of the eastern Chesapeake! Land of the Delaware! Land of Ontari=
o,
Erie, Huron, Michigan! Land of the Old Thirteen! Massachusetts land! Land of
Vermont and =
Connecticut!
Land of the ocean shores! Land of sierras and peaks! Land of boatmen and
sailors! Fishermen's land! Inextricable lands! the clutched together! the
passionate ones! The side by side! the elder and younger brothers! the
bony-limbed! The great women's land! the feminine! the experienced sisters =
and
the =
inexperienced
sisters! Far-breathed land! Arctic-braced! Mexican-breezed! the diverse! th=
e =
compact!
The Pennsylvanian! the Virginian! the double Carolinian! O all and each
well-loved by me! my intrepid nations! O I at any rate include you all with
perfect love! I cannot be discharged from you--not from one, any sooner than
another!
O Death! O!--for =
all
that, I am yet of you unseen, this hour, with =
irrepressible
love, Walking New England, a friend, a traveller, Splashing my bare feet in=
the
edge of the summer ripples, on Paumanok's =
sands,
Crossing the prairies--dwelling again in Chicago--dwelling in every town, O=
bserving
shows, births, improvements, structures, arts, Listening to the orators and=
the
oratresses in public halls, Of and through the States, as during life[4]--e=
ach
man and woman my =
neighbour,
The Louisianian, the Georgian, as near to me, and I as near to him and her,=
The
Mississippian and Arkansian yet with me--and I yet with any of them; Yet up=
on
the plains west of the spinal river--yet in my house of adobie, Yet returni=
ng eastward--yet
in the Sea-Side State, or in Maryland, Yet Canadian cheerily braving the
winter--the snow and ice welcome to me, =
or
mounting the Northern Pacific, to Sitka, to Aliaska; Yet a true son either =
of
Maine, or of the Granite State,[5] or of the =
Narragansett
Bay State, or of the Empire State;[6] Yet sailing to other shores to annex =
the
same--yet welcoming every new =
brother;
Hereby applying these leaves to the new ones, from the hour they unite with=
=
the
old ones; Coming among the new ones myself, to be their companion and
equal--coming =
personally
to you now; Enjoining you to acts, characters, spectacles, with me.
16.
With me, with firm
holding--yet haste, haste on. For your life, adhere to me; Of all the men of
the earth, I only can unloose you and toughen you; I may have to be persuad=
ed
many times before I consent to give myself to =
you--but
what of that?
Must not Nature be
persuaded many times? No dainty dolce affettuoso I; Bearded, sunburnt, gray=
-necked,
forbidding, I have arrived, To be wrestled with as I pass, for the solid pr=
izes
of the universe; For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them.
17.
On my way a momen=
t I
pause; Here for you! and here for America! Still the Present I raise aloft-=
-still
the Future of the States I harbinge, =
glad
and sublime; And for the Past, I pronounce what the air holds of the red
aborigines.
The red aborigine=
s! Leaving
natural breaths, sounds of rain and winds, calls as of birds and =
animals
in the woods, syllabled to us for names; Okonee, Koosa, Ottawa, Monongahela,
Sauk, Natchez, Chattahoochee, Kaqueta, Oronoco, Wabash, Miami, Saginaw,
Chippewa, Oshkosh, Walla-Walla; Leaving such to the States, they melt, they
depart, charging the water and the l=
and
with names.
18.
O expanding and
swift! O henceforth, Elements, breeds, adjustments, turbulent, quick, and
audacious; A world primal again--vistas of glory, incessant and branching; A
new race, dominating previous ones, and grander far, with new contests, New
politics, new literatures and religions, new inventions and arts.
These my voice
announcing--I will sleep no more, but arise; You oceans that have been calm
within me! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented wa=
ves
and storms.
19.
See! steamers
steaming through my poems! See in my poems immigrants continually coming and
landing; See in arriere, the wigwam, the trail, the hunter's hut, the
flat-boat, the =
maize-leaf,
the claim, the rude fence, and the backwoods village; See, on the one side =
the
Western Sea, and on the other the Eastern Sea, how =
they
advance and retreat upon my poems, as upon their own shores; See pastures a=
nd
forests in my poems--See animals, wild and tame--See, =
beyond
the Kanzas, countless herds of buffalo, feeding on short =
curly
grass; See, in my poems, cities, solid, vast, inland, with paved streets, w=
ith =
iron
and stone edifices, ceaseless vehicles, and commerce; See the many-cylinder=
ed
steam printing-press--See the electric telegraph, =
stretching
across the Continent, from the Western Sea to Manhattan; See, through
Atlantica's depths, pulses American, Europe reaching--pulses =
of
Europe, duly returned; See the strong and quick locomotive, as it departs,
panting, blowing the =
steam-whistle;
See ploughmen, ploughing farms--See miners, digging mines--See the =
numberless
factories; See mechanics, busy at their benches, with tools--See, from among
them, =
superior
judges, philosophs, Presidents, emerge, dressed in working =
dresses;
See, lounging through the shops and fields of the States, me, well-beloved,=
=
close-held
by day and night; Hear the loud echoes of my songs there! Read the hints co=
me
at last.
20.
O Camerado close!=
O
you and me at last--and us two only. O a word to clear one's path ahead
endlessly! O something ecstatic and undemonstrable! O music wild! O now I
triumph--and you shall also; O hand in hand--O wholesome pleasure--O one mo=
re
desirer and lover! O to haste, firm holding--to haste, haste on, with me.
[Footnote 1: Paum=
anok
is the native name of Long Island, State of New York. It presents a fish-li=
ke
shape on the map.]
[Footnote 2:
Mannahatta, or Manhattan, is (as many readers will know) New York.]
[Footnote 3: 1856=
.]
[Footnote 4: The =
poet
here contemplates himself as yet living spiritually and in his poems after =
the
death of the body, still a friend and brother to all present and future
American lands and persons.]
[Footnote 5: New
Hampshire.]
[Footnote 6: New =
York
State.]
AMERICA always! Always our own feui=
llage!
Always Florida's green peninsula! Always the priceless delta of Louisiana! =
Always
the cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas! Always California's golden hills an=
d hollows--and
the silver mountains of New Mexico! Always soft-breathed Cuba! Always the v=
ast
slope drained by the Southern Sea--inseparable with the =
slopes
drained by the Eastern and Western Seas! The area the eighty-third year of
these States[1]--the three and a half =
millions
of square miles; The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on =
the
main--the =
thirty
thousand miles of river navigation, The seven millions of distinct families,
and the same number of dwellings-- Always these, and more, branching forth =
into
numberless branches; Always the free range and diversity! Always the contin=
ent
of Democracy! Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travelle=
rs,
Canada, =
the
snows; Always these compact lands--lands tied at the hips with the belt
stringing =
the
huge oval lakes; Always the West, with strong native persons--the increasing
density there-- =
the
habitans, friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning invaders; All sights,
South, North, East--all deeds, promiscuously done at all times, All charact=
ers,
movements, growths--a few noticed, myriads unnoticed. Through Mannahatta's
streets I walking, these things gathering. On interior rivers, by night, in=
the
glare of pine knots, steamboats =
wooding
up: Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the valleys of=
the
Potomac and Rappahannock, and the valleys of the Roanoke and Delaware; In t=
heir
northerly wilds beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks the =
hills--or
lapping the Saginaw waters to drink;
In a lonesome inl=
et,
a sheldrake, lost from the flock, sitting on the =
water,
rocking silently; In farmers' barns, oxen in the stable, their harvest labo=
ur
done--they rest =
standing--they
are too tired; Afar on arctic ice, the she-walrus lying drowsily, while her
cubs play =
around;
The hawk sailing where men have not yet sailed--the farthest polar sea,
[Footnote 1:
1858-59.]
I was looking a long while for the
history of the past for myself, and for =
these
chants--and now I have found it. It is not in those paged fables in the
libraries, (them I neither accept =
nor
reject;) It is no more in the legends than in all else; It is in the
present--it is this earth to-day; It is in Democracy--in this America--the =
Old
World also; It is the life of one man or one woman to-day, the average man =
of
to-day; It is languages, social customs, literatures, arts; It is the broad
show of artificial things, ships, machinery, politics, =
creeds,
modern improvements, and the interchange of nations, All for the average ma=
n of
to-day.
Years of the unperformed! your hori=
zon
rises--I see it part away for more =
august
dramas; I see not America only--I see not only Liberty's nation but other
nations =
embattling;
I see tremendous entrances and exits--I see new combinations--I see the
Of these years I sing, How they pass
through convulsed pains, as through parturitions; How America illustrates
birth, gigantic youth, the promise, the sure =
fulfilment,
despite of people--Illustrates evil as well as good; How many hold despairi=
ngly
yet to the models departed, caste, myths, =
obedience,
compulsion, and to infidelity; How few see the arrived models, the athletes,
the States--or see freedom or =
spirituality--or
hold any faith in results. But I see the athletes--and I see the results
glorious and inevitable--and =
they
again leading to other results; How the great cities appear--How the Democr=
atic
masses, turbulent, wilful, =
as
I love them, How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the=
sounding
and =
resounding,
keep on and on; How society waits unformed, and is between things ended and
things begun; How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of
freedom, and =
of
the Democracies, and of the fruits of society, and of all that =
is
begun; And how the States are complete in themselves--And how all triumphs =
and =
glories
are complete in themselves, to lead onward, And how these of mine, and of t=
he
States, will in their turn be convulsed, =
and
serve other parturitions and transitions. And how all people, sights,
combinations, the Democratic masses, too, =
serve--and
how every fact serves, And how now, or at any time, each serves the exquisi=
te
transition of Death.
1.
Come closer to me=
; Push
close, my lovers, and take the best I possess; Yield closer and closer, and
give me the best you possess.
This is unfinished
business with me--How is it with you? (I was chilled with the cold types,
cylinder, wet paper between us.)
Male and Female! I
pass so poorly with paper and types, I must pass with the contact of =
bodies
and souls.
American masses! =
I do
not thank you for liking me as I am, and liking the touch of me--I =
know
that it is good for you to do so.
2.
This is the poem =
of
occupations; In the labour of engines and trades, and the labour of fields,=
I
find the =
developments,
And find the eternal meanings. Workmen and Workwomen! Were all educations,
practical and ornamental, well displayed out of me, what would =
it
amount to? Were I as the head teacher, charitable proprietor, wise statesma=
n,
what =
would
it amount to? Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you, would that
satisfy you?
The learned,
virtuous, benevolent, and the usual terms; A man like me, and never the usu=
al
terms.
Neither a servant=
nor
a master am I; I take no sooner a large price than a small price--I will ha=
ve
my own, =
whoever
enjoys me; I will be even with you, and you shall be even with me.
If you stand at w=
ork
in a shop, I stand as nigh as the nighest in the same =
shop;
If you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend, I demand as good as =
=
your
brother or dearest friend; If your lover, husband, wife, is welcome by day =
or
night, I must be =
personally
as welcome; If you become degraded, criminal, ill, then I become so for your
sake; If you remember your foolish and outlawed deeds, do you think I canno=
t =
remember
my own foolish and outlawed deeds? If you carouse at the table, I carouse at
the opposite side of the table; If you meet some stranger in the streets, a=
nd
love him or her--why I often =
meet
strangers in the street, and love them.
Why, what have you
thought of yourself? Is it you then that thought yourself less? Is it you t=
hat
thought the President greater than you? Or the rich better off than you? or=
the
educated wiser than you?
Because you are
greasy or pimpled, or that you was once drunk, or a thief, Or diseased, or
rheumatic, or a prostitute, or are so now; Or from frivolity or impotence, =
or
that you are no scholar, and never saw =
your
name in print, Do you give in that you are any less immortal?
3.
Souls of men and
women! it is not you I call unseen, unheard, untouchable =
and
untouching; It is not you I go argue pro and con about, and to settle wheth=
er
you are =
alive
or no; I own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns.
Grown, half-grown,
and babe, of this country and every country, indoors and outdoors, one just=
as
much as the other, I see, And all else behind or through them.
The wife--and she=
is
not one jot less than the husband; The daughter--and she is just as good as=
the
son; The mother--and she is every bit as much as the father.
Offspring of igno=
rant
and poor, boys apprenticed to trades, Young fellows working on farms, and o=
ld
fellows working on farms, Sailor-men, merchant-men, coasters, immigrants, A=
ll
these I see--but nigher and farther the same I see; None shall escape me, a=
nd
none shall wish to escape me. I bring what you much need, yet always have, =
Not
money, amours, dress, eating, but as good; I send no agent or medium, offer=
no
representative of value, but offer the =
value
itself.
There is something
that comes home to one now and perpetually; It is not what is printed,
preached, discussed--it eludes discussion and =
print;
It is not to be put in a book--it is not in this book; It is for you, whoev=
er
you are--it is no farther from you than your hearing =
and
sight are from you; It is hinted by nearest, commonest, readiest--it is ever
provoked by them.
You may read in m=
any
languages, yet read nothing about it; You may read the President's Message,=
and
read nothing about it there; Nothing in the reports from the State departme=
nt
or Treasury department, or =
in
the daily papers or the weekly papers, Or in the census or revenue returns,
prices current, or any accounts of =
stock.
4.
The sun and stars
that float in the open air; The apple-shaped earth, and we upon it--surely =
the
drift of them is =
something
grand! I do not know what it is, except that it is grand, and that it is =
happiness,
And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot,=
=
or
reconnoissance, And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well
for us, and =
without
luck must be a failure for us, And not something which may yet be retracted=
in
a certain contingency.
The light and sha=
de,
the curious sense of body and identity, the greed that =
with
perfect complaisance devours all things, the endless pride and =
outstretching
of man, unspeakable joys and sorrows, The wonder every one sees in every one
else he sees, and the wonders that =
fill
each minute of time for ever, What have you reckoned them for, camerado? Ha=
ve
you reckoned them for a trade, or farm-work? or for the profits of a =
store?
Or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's leisure, or a <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
lady's
leisure?
Have you reckoned=
the
landscape took substance and form that it might be =
painted
in a picture? Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sun=
g? Or
the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and harmonious =
combinations,
and the fluids of the air, as subjects for the =
savans?
Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts? Or the stars to be =
put
in constellations and named fancy names? Or that the growth of seeds is for
agricultural tables, or agriculture =
itself?
Old
institutions--these arts, libraries, legends, collections, and the =
practice
handed along in manufactures--will we rate them so high? Will we rate our c=
ash
and business high?--I have no objection; I rate them as high as the
highest--then a child born of a woman and man I =
rate
beyond all rate.
We thought our Un=
ion
grand, and our Constitution grand; I do not say they are not grand and good,
for they are; I am this day just as much in love with them as you; Then I a=
m in
love with you, and with all my fellows upon the earth.
We consider Bibles
and religions divine--I do not say they are not divine; I say they have all
grown out of you, and may grow out of you still; It is not they who give the
life--it is you who give the life; Leaves are not more shed from the trees,=
or
trees from the earth, than they =
are
shed out of you.
5.
When the psalm si=
ngs,
instead of the singer; When the script preaches, instead of the preacher; W=
hen
the pulpit descends and goes, instead of the carver that carved the =
supporting
desk; When I can touch the body of books, by night or by day, and when they
touch =
my
body back again; When a university course convinces, like a slumbering woman
and child =
convince;
When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-watchman's daughter; When
warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite, and are my friendly =
companions;
I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them as I do of men and=
=
women
like you. The sum of all known reverence I add up in you, whoever you are; =
The
President is there in the White House for you--it is not you who are =
here
for him; The Secretaries act in their bureaus for you--not you here for the=
m; The
Congress convenes every twelfth month for you; Laws, courts, the forming of=
States,
the charters of cities, the going and =
coming
of commerce and mails, are all for you.
List close, my
scholars dear! All doctrines, all politics and civilisation, exsurge from y=
ou; All
sculpture and monuments, and anything inscribed anywhere, are tallied =
in
you; The gist of histories and statistics, as far back as the records reach=
, is
=
in
you this hour, and myths and tales the same; If you were not breathing and
walking here, where would they all be? The most renowned poems would be ash=
es,
orations and plays would be =
vacuums.
All architecture =
is
what you do to it when you look upon it; Did you think it was in the white =
or
grey stone? or the lines of the arches =
and
cornices?
All music is what
awakes from you, when you are reminded by the =
instruments;
It is not the violins and the cornets--it is not the oboe nor the beating <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
drums,
nor the score of the baritone singer singing his sweet =
romanza--nor
that of the men's chorus, nor that of the women's =
chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.
6.
Will the whole co=
me
back then? Can each see signs of the best by a look in the looking-glass? is
there =
nothing
greater or more? Does all sit there with you, with the mystic, unseen soul?=
Strange and hard =
that
paradox true I give; Objects gross and the unseen Soul are one.
House-building,
measuring, sawing the boards; Blacksmithing, glass-blowing, nail-making,
coopering, tin-roofing, shingle- =
dressing,
Ship-joining, dock-building, fish-curing, ferrying, flagging of side-walks =
=
by
flaggers, The pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the coal-kiln and
brick-kiln, Coal-mines, and all that is down there,--the lamps in the darkn=
ess,
echoes, =
songs,
what meditations, what vast native thoughts looking through =
smutched
faces, Ironworks, forge-fires in the mountains, or by the river-banks--men
around =
feeling
the melt with huge crowbars--lumps of ore, the due =
combining
of ore, limestone, coal--the blast-furnace and the =
puddling-furnace,
the loup-lump at the bottom of the melt at last-- =
the
rolling-mill, the stumpy bars of pig-iron, the strong, clean =
shaped
T-rail for railroads; Oilworks, silkworks, white-lead-works, the sugar-hous=
e,
steam-saws, the =
great
mills and factories; Stone-cutting, shapely trimmings for façades, or
window or door lintels-- =
the
mallet, the tooth-chisel, the jib to protect the thumb, Oakum, =
the
oakum-chisel, the caulking-iron--the kettle of boiling vault- =
cement,
and the fire under the kettle, The cotton-bale, the stevedore's hook, the s=
aw
and buck of the sawyer, the =
mould
of the moulder, the working knife of the butcher, the ice- =
saw,
and all the work with ice, The implements for daguerreotyping--the tools of=
the
rigger, grappler, =
sail-maker,
block-maker, Goods of gutta-percha, papier-mâché, colours,
brushes, brush-making, =
glaziers'
implements, The veneer and glue-pot, the confectioner's ornaments, the deca=
nter
and =
glasses,
the shears and flat-iron, The awl and knee-strap, the pint measure and quart
measure, the counter and =
stool,
the writing-pen of quill or metal--the making of all sorts =
of
edged tools, The brewery, brewing, the malt, the vats, everything that is d=
one
by =
brewers,
also by wine-makers, also vinegar-makers, Leather-dressing, coach-making,
boiler-making, rope-twisting, distilling, =
sign-painting,
lime-burning, cotton-picking--electro-plating, =
electrotyping,
stereotyping, Stave-machines, planing-machines, reaping-machines, =
ploughing-machines,
thrashing-machines, steam waggons, The cart of the carman, the omnibus, the
ponderous dray; Pyrotechny, letting off coloured fireworks at night, fancy
figures and =
jets,
Beef on the butcher's stall, the slaughter-house of the butcher, the =
butcher
in his killing-clothes, The pens of live pork, the killing-hammer, the
hog-hook, the scalder's tub, =
gutting,
the cutter's cleaver, the packer's maul, and the plenteous =
winter-work
of pork-packing, Flour-works, grinding of wheat, rye, maize, rice--the barr=
els
and the half =
and
quarter barrels, the loaded barges, the high piles on wharves =
and
levees, The men, and the work of the men, on railroads, coasters, fish-boat=
s, =
canals;
The daily routine of your own or any man's life--the shop, yard, store, or =
=
factory;
These shows all near you by day and night-workmen! whoever you are, your =
daily
life! In that and them the heft of the heaviest--in them far more than you =
=
estimated,
and far less also; In them realities for you and me--in them poems for you =
and
me; In them, not yourself--you and your soul enclose all things, regardless=
of estim=
ation;
In them the development good--in them, all themes and hints.
I do not affirm w=
hat
you see beyond is futile--I do not advise you to stop; I do not say leadings
you thought great are not great; But I say that none lead to greater than t=
hose
lead to.
7.
Will you seek afar
off? You surely come back at last, In things best known to you finding the
best, or as good as the best, In folks nearest to you finding the sweetest,
strongest, lovingest; Happiness, knowledge, not in another place, but this
place--not for another =
hour,
but this hour; Man in the first you see or touch--always in friend, brother,
nighest =
neighbour--Woman
in mother, sister, wife; The popular tastes and employments taking preceden=
ce
in poems or anywhere, You workwomen and workmen of these States having your=
own
divine and strong =
life,
And all else giving place to men and women like you.
1.
Weapon, shapely,
naked, wan; Head from the mother's bowels drawn! Wooded flesh and metal bon=
e!
limb only one, and lip only one! Grey-blue leaf by red-heat grown! helve
produced from a little seed sown! Resting the grass amid and upon, To be
leaned, and to lean on.
Strong shapes, and
attributes of strong shapes--masculine trades, sights and sounds;=
Long
varied train of an emblem, dabs of music; Fingers of the organist skipping
staccato over the keys of the great organ.
2.
Welcome are all
earth's lands, each for its kind; Welcome are lands of pine and oak; Welcome
are lands of the lemon and fig; Welcome are lands of gold; Welcome are land=
s of
wheat and maize--welcome those of the grape; Welcome are lands of sugar and
rice; Welcome are cotton-lands--welcome those of the white potato and sweet=
=
potato;
Welcome are mountains, flats, sands, forests, prairies; Welcome the rich
borders of rivers, table-lands, openings, Welcome the measureless
grazing-lands--welcome the teeming soil of =
orchards,
flax, honey, hemp; Welcome just as much the other more hard-faced lands; La=
nds
rich as lands of gold, or wheat and fruit lands; Lands of mines, lands of t=
he
manly and rugged ores; Lands of coal, copper, lead, tin, zinc; LANDS OF IRO=
N!
lands of the make of the axe!
3.
The log at the
wood-pile, the axe supported by it; The sylvan hut, the vine over the doorw=
ay,
the space cleared for a garden, The irregular tapping of rain down on the
leaves, after the storm is =
lulled,
The wailing and moaning at intervals, the thought of the sea, The thought of
ships struck in the storm, and put on their beam-ends, and =
the
cutting away of masts; The sentiment of the huge timbers of old-fashioned
houses and barns; The remembered print or narrative, the voyage at a ventur=
e of
men, =
families,
goods, The disembarkation, the founding of a new city, The voyage of those =
who
sought a New England and found it--the outset =
anywhere,
The settlements of the Arkansas, Colorado, Ottawa, Willamette, The slow
progress, the scant fare, the axe, rifle, saddle-bags; The beauty of all
adventurous and daring persons, The beauty of wood-boys and wood-men, with
their clear untrimmed faces, The beauty of independence, departure, actions
that rely on themselves, The American contempt for statutes and ceremonies,=
the
boundless impatience =
of
restraint, The loose drift of character, the inkling through random types, =
the =
solidification;
The butcher in the slaughter-house, the hands aboard schooners and sloops, =
=
the
raftsman, the pioneer, Lumbermen in their winter camp, daybreak in the wood=
s,
stripes of snow on =
the
limbs of trees, the occasional snapping, The glad clear sound of one's own
voice, the merry song, the natural life =
of
the woods, the strong day's work, The blazing fire at night, the sweet tast=
e of
supper, the talk, the bed of =
hemlock
boughs, and the bearskin; --The house-builder at work in cities or anywhere=
, The
preparatory jointing, squaring, sawing, mortising, The hoist-up of beams, t=
he
push of them in their places, laying them =
regular,
Setting the studs by their tenons in the mortises, =
according
as they were prepared, The blows of mallets and hammers, the attitudes of t=
he
men, their curved =
limbs,
Bending, standing, astride the beams, driving in pins, holding on by posts =
and braces, The hooked =
arm
over the plate, the other arm wielding the axe, The floor-men forcing the
planks close, to be nailed, Their postures bringing their weapons downward =
on
the bearers, The echoes resounding through the vacant building; The huge st=
ore-house
carried up in the city, well under way, The six framing men, two in the mid=
dle,
and two at each end, carefully =
bearing
on their shoulders a heavy stick for a cross-beam, The crowded line of maso=
ns
with trowels in their right hands, rapidly =
laying
the long side-wall, two hundred feet from front to rear, The flexible rise =
and
fall of backs, the continual click of the trowels =
striking
the bricks, The bricks, one after another, each laid so workmanlike in its
place, and set with a knock of the
trowel-handle, The piles of materials, the mortar on the mortar-boards, and=
the
steady =
replenishing
by the hod-men; --Spar-makers in the spar-yard, the swarming row of well-gr=
own
apprentices, The swing of their axes on the square-hewed log, shaping it to=
ward
the =
shape
of a mast, The brisk short crackle of the steel driven slantingly into the
pine, The butter-coloured chips flying off in great flakes and slivers, The
limber motion of brawny young arms and hips in easy costumes; The construct=
or
of wharves, bridges, piers, bulk-heads, floats, stays =
against
the sea; --The city fireman--the fire that suddenly bursts forth in the
close-packed =
square,
The arriving engines, the hoarse shouts, the nimble stepping and daring, The
strong command through the fire-trumpets, the falling in line, the rise
4.
Muscle and pluck =
for
ever! What invigorates life invigorates death, And the dead advance as much=
as
the living advance, And the future is no more uncertain than the present, A=
nd
the roughness of the earth and of man encloses as =
much
as the delicatesse of the earth and of man, And nothing endures but personal
qualities.
What do you think
endures? Do you think the great city endures? Or a teeming manufacturing st=
ate?
or a prepared constitution? or the best- =
built
steamships? Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs-d'oeuvre of
engineering, =
forts,
armaments?
Away! These are n=
ot
to be cherished for themselves; They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the
musicians play =
for
them; The show passes, all does well enough of course, All does very well t=
ill
one flash of defiance.
The great city is
that which has the greatest man or woman; If it be a few ragged huts, it is
still the greatest city in the =
whole
world.
5.
The place where t=
he
great city stands is not the place of =
stretched
wharves, docks, manufactures, deposits of produce, Nor the place of ceasele=
ss
salutes of new-comers, or the =
anchor-lifters
of the departing, Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings, or
shops =
selling
goods from the rest of the earth, Nor the place of the best libraries and
schools--nor the place where money =
is
plentiest, Nor the place of the most numerous population.
Where the city st=
ands
with the brawniest breed of orators and bards; Where the city stands that is
beloved by these, and loves them in return, =
and
understands them; Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words
and deeds; Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place; Where
the men and women think lightly of the laws; Where the slave ceases, and the
master of slaves ceases; Where the populace rise at once against the
never-ending audacity of =
elected
persons; Where fierce men and women pour forth, as the sea to the whistle of
death =
pours
its sweeping and unripped waves; Where outside authority enters always after
the precedence of inside =
authority;
Where the citizen is always the head and ideal--and President, Mayor, =
Governor,
and what not, are agents for pay; Where children are taught to be laws to
themselves, and to depend on =
themselves;
Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs; Where speculations on the Soul =
are
encouraged; Where women walk in public processions in the streets, the same=
as
the men; Where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as t=
he
men; Where the city of the faithfullest friends stands; Where the city of t=
he
cleanliness of the sexes stands; Where the city of the healthiest fathers
stands; Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,-- There the great
city stands.
6.
How beggarly appe=
ar
arguments before a defiant deed! How the floridness of the materials of cit=
ies
shrivels before a man's or =
woman's
look!
All waits, or goe=
s by
default, till a strong being appears; A strong being is the proof of the ra=
ce,
and of the ability of the =
universe;
When he or she appears, materials are overawed, The dispute on the Soul sto=
ps, The
old customs and phrases are confronted, turned back, or laid away.
What is your
money-making now? What can it do now? What is your respectability now? What=
are
your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books, now? Where are =
your
jibes of being now? Where are your cavils about the Soul now?
Was that your bes=
t?
Were those your vast and solid? Riches, opinions, politics, institutions, to
part obediently from the path =
of
one man or woman! The centuries, and all authority, to be trod under the
foot-soles of one =
man
or woman!
7.
A sterile landsca=
pe
covers the ore--there is as good as the best, for all =
the
forbidding appearance; There is the mine, there are the miners; The
forge-furnace is there, the melt is accomplished; the hammersmen are at
Than this nothing=
has
better served--it has served all: Served the fluent-tongued and subtle-sens=
ed
Greek, and long ere the Greek; Served in building the buildings that last
longer than any; Served the Hebrew, the Persian, the most ancient Hindostan=
ee; Served
the mound-raiser on the Mississippi--served those whose relics =
remain
in Central America; Served Albic temples in woods or on plains, with unhewn
pillars, and the =
druids;
Served the artificial clefts, vast, high, silent, on the snow-covered hills=
=
of
Scandinavia; Served those who, time out of mind, made on the granite walls
rough =
sketches
of the sun, moon, stars, ships, ocean-waves; Served the paths of the irrupt=
ions
of the Goths--served the pastoral tribes =
and
nomads; Served the long long distant Kelt--served the hardy pirates of the
Baltic; Served, before any of those, the venerable and harmless men of
Ethiopia; Served the making of helms for the galleys of pleasure, and the
making of =
those
for war; Served all great works on land, and all great works on the sea; For
the mediaeval ages, and before the mediaeval ages; Served not the living on=
ly,
then as now, but served the dead.
8.
I see the European
headsman; He stands masked, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked
arms, And leans on a ponderous axe.
Whom have you
slaughtered lately, European headsman? Whose is that blood upon you, so wet=
and
sticky?
I see the clear
sunsets of the martyrs; I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts, Gho=
sts
of dead lords, uncrowned ladies, impeached ministers, rejected =
kings,
Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains, and the rest.
I see those who in
any land have died for the good cause; The seed is spare, nevertheless the =
crop
shall never run out; (Mind you, O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall
never run out.)
I see the blood
washed entirely away from the axe; Both blade and helve are clean; They spi=
rt
no more the blood of European nobles--they clasp no more the =
necks
of queens.
I see the headsman
withdraw and become useless; I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy--I see=
no
longer any axe upon it; I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power o=
f my
own race--the =
newest,
largest race.
9.
America! I do not
vaunt my love for you; I have what I have.
The axe leaps! The
solid forest gives fluid utterances; They tumble forth, they rise and form,=
Hut,
tent, landing, survey, Flail, plough, pick, crowbar, spade, Shingle, rail,
prop, wainscot, jamb, lath, panel, gable, Citadel, ceiling, saloon, academy,
organ, exhibition house, library, Cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, wind=
ow,
shutter, turret, porch, Hoe, rake, pitchfork, pencil, waggon, staff, saw,
jack-plane, mallet, =
wedge,
rounce, Chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor, Work-box, chest,
stringed instrument, boat, frame, and what not, Capitols of States, and cap=
itol
of the nation of States, Long stately rows in avenues, hospitals for orphan=
s,
or for the poor or =
sick,
Manhattan steamboats and clippers, taking the measure of all seas.
The shapes arise!=
Shapes
of the using of axes anyhow, and the users, and all that neighbours =
them,
Cutters-down of wood, and haulers of it to the Penobscot or Kennebec, Dwell=
ers
in cabins among the Californian mountains, or by the little lakes, =
or
on the Columbia, Dwellers south on the banks of the Gila or Rio
Grande--friendly gatherings, =
the
characters and fun, Dwellers up north in Minnesota and by the Yellowstone
river--dwellers on =
coasts
and off coasts, Seal-fishers, whalers, arctic seamen breaking passages thro=
ugh
the ice.
The shapes arise!=
Shapes
of factories, arsenals, foundries, markets; Shapes of the two-threaded trac=
ks
of railroads; Shapes of the sleepers of bridges, vast frameworks, girders,
arches; Shapes of the fleets of barges, tows, lake craft, river craft.
The shapes arise!=
Shipyards
and dry-docks along the Eastern and Western Seas, and in many a =
bay
and by-place, The live-oak kelsons, the pine-planks, the spars, the hackmat=
ack-roots
for =
knees,
The ships themselves on their ways, the tiers of scaffolds, the workmen
10.
The shapes arise!=
The
shape measured, sawed, jacked, joined, stained, The coffin-shape for the de=
ad
to lie within in his shroud; The shape got out in posts, in the bedstead po=
sts,
in the posts of the =
bride's
bed; The shape of the little trough, the shape of the rockers beneath, the
shape =
of
the babe's cradle; The shape of the floor-planks, the floor-planks for danc=
ers'
feet; The shape of the planks of the family home, the home of the friendly =
=
parents
and children, The shape of the roof of the home of the happy young man and
woman, the =
roof
over the well-married young man and woman, The roof over the supper joyously
cooked by the chaste wife, and joyously =
eaten
by the chaste husband, content after his day's work.
The shapes arise!=
The
shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her =
seated
in the place; The shape of the liquor-bar leaned against by the young
rum-drinker and the =
old
rum-drinker; The shape of the shamed and angry stairs, trod, by sneaking
footsteps; The shape of the sly settee, and the adulterous unwholesome coup=
le; The
shape of the gambling-board with its devilish winnings and losings; The sha=
pe
of the step-ladder for the convicted and sentenced murderer, the murderer wi=
th
haggard face and pinioned arms, The sheriff at hand with his deputies, the
silent and white-lipped crowd, =
the
sickening dangling of the rope.
The shapes arise!=
Shapes
of doors giving many exits and entrances; The door passing the dissevered
friend, flushed and in haste; The door that admits good news and bad news; =
The
door whence the son left home, confident and puffed up; The door he entered
again from a long and scandalous absence, diseased, =
broken
down, without innocence, without means.
11.
Her shape arises,=
She
less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than ever; The gross and soiled she
moves among do not make her gross and soiled; She knows the thoughts as she
passes--nothing is concealed from her; She is none the less considerate or
friendly therefor; She is the best beloved--it is without exception--she ha=
s no
reason to =
fear,
and she does not fear; Oaths, quarrels, hiccupped songs, smutty expressions,
are idle to her as =
she
passes; She is silent--she is possessed of herself--they do not offend her;=
She
receives them as the laws of nature receive them--she is strong, She too is=
a
law of nature--there is no law stronger than she is.
12.
The main shapes
arise! Shapes of Democracy, total result of centuries; Shapes, ever project=
ing
other shapes; Shapes of a hundred Free States, begetting another hundred; S=
hapes
of turbulent manly cities; Shapes of the women fit for these States, Shapes=
of
the friends and home-givers of the whole earth, Shapes bracing the earth, a=
nd
braced with the whole earth.
1.
With antecedents;=
With
my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages: With all which,=
had
it not been, I would not now be here, as I am; With Egypt, India, Phoenicia,
Greece, and Rome; With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb, and the Saxon; =
With
antique maritime ventures,--with laws, artisanship, wars, and =
journeys;
With the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle; With the sale=
of
slaves--with enthusiasts--with the troubadour, the =
crusader,
and the monk; With those old continents whence we have come to this new
continent; With the fading kingdoms and kings over there; With the fading
religions and priests; With the small shores we look back to from our own l=
arge
and present =
shores;
With countless years drawing themselves onward, and arrived at these years;=
You
and Me arrived--America arrived, and making this year; This year! sending
itself ahead countless years to come.
2.
O but it is not t=
he
years--it is I--it is You; We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents; We=
are
the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight--we easily include =
them,
and more; We stand amid time, beginningless and endless--we stand amid evil=
and
good; All swings around us--there is as much darkness as light; The very sun
swings itself and its system of planets around us: Its sun, and its again, =
all
swing around us.
3.
As for me, (torn,
stormy, even as I, amid these vehement days;) I have the idea of all, and am
all, and believe in all; I believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is
true--I reject no part.
Have I forgotten =
any
part? Come to me, whoever and whatever, till I give you recognition.
I respect Assyria,
China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews; I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-=
god;
I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without =
exception;
I assert that all past days were what they should have been; And that they
could nohow have been better than they were, And that to-day is what it sho=
uld
be--and that America is, And that to-day and America could nohow be better =
than
they are.
4.
In the name of th=
ese
States, and in your and my name, the Past, And in the name of these States,=
and
in your and my name, the Present time.
I know that the p=
ast
was great, and the future will be great, And I know that both curiously
conjoint in the present time, For the sake of him I typify--for the common
average man's sake--your sake, =
if
you are he; And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there is the
centre of =
all
days, all races, And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come=
of
races and =
days,
or ever will come.
SALUT AU MONDE!
1.
O take my hand, W=
alt
Whitman! Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds! Such joined unended
links, each hooked to the next! Each answering all--each sharing the earth =
with
all.
What widens within
you, Walt Whitman? What waves and soils exuding? What climes? what persons =
and
lands are here? Who are the infants? some playing, some slumbering? Who are=
the
girls? who are the married women? Who are the three old men going slowly wi=
th
their arms about each others' =
necks?
What rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these? What are the
mountains called that rise so high in the mists? What myriads of dwellings =
are
they, filled with dwellers?
2.
Within me latitude
widens, longitude lengthens; Asia, Africa, Europe, are to the east--America=
is
provided for in the west; Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equa=
tor,
Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends; Within me is the longest day-=
-the
sun wheels in slanting rings--it does not =
set
for months. Stretched in due time within me the midnight sun just rises abo=
ve
the =
horizon,
and sinks again; Within me zones, seas, cataracts, plants, volcanoes, group=
s, Malaysia,
Polynesia, and the great West Indian islands.
3.
What do you hear,
Walt Whitman?
I hear the workman
singing, and the farmer's wife singing; I hear in the distance the sounds of
children, and of animals early in the =
day;
I hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of East Tennessee and Kentucky,=
=
hunting
on hills; I hear emulous shouts of Australians, pursuing the wild horse; I =
hear
the Spanish dance, with castanets, in the chestnut shade, to the =
rebeck
and guitar; I hear continual echoes from the Thames; I hear fierce French
liberty songs; I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of=
old
poems; I hear the Virginian plantation chorus of negroes, of a harvest nigh=
t,
in =
the
glare of pine-knots; I hear the strong barytone of the 'long-shore-men of
Mannahatta; I hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and singing; I hear=
the
screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-west lakes; I hear the rustling
pattering of locusts, as they strike the grain and =
grass
with the showers of their terrible clouds; I hear the Coptic refrain, toward
sundown, pensively falling on the breast =
of
the black venerable vast mother, the Nile; I hear the bugles of raft-tender=
s on
the streams of Canada; I hear the chirp of the Mexican muleteer, and the be=
lls
of the mule; I hear the Arab muezzin, calling from the top of the mosque; I
hear the Christian priests at the altars of their churches--I hear the =
responsive
bass and soprano; I hear the wail of utter despair of the white-haired Irish
grandparents, =
when
they learn the death of their grandson; I hear the cry of the Cossack, and =
the
sailor's voice, putting to sea at Okotsk; I hear the whee=
ze of
the slave-coffle, as the slaves march on--as the husky =
gangs
pass on by twos and threes, fastened together with wrist- =
chains
and ankle-chains; I hear the entreaties of women tied up for punishment--I =
hear
the sibilant =
whisk
of thongs through the air; I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms=
; I
hear the rhythmic myths of the Greeks, and the strong legends of the =
Romans;
I hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death of the beautiful God, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
the
Christ; I hear the Hindoo teaching his favourite pupil the loves, wars, ada=
ges,
=
transmitted
safely to this day from poets who wrote three thousand =
years
ago.
4.
What do you see, =
Walt
Whitman? Who are they you salute, and that one after another salute you?
I see a great rou=
nd
wonder rolling through the air: I see diminute farms, hamlets, ruins,
grave-yards, jails, factories, =
palaces,
hovels, huts of barbarians, tents of nomads, upon the =
surface;
I see the shaded part on one side, where the sleepers are sleeping--and the=
=
sun-lit
part on the other side; I see the curious silent change of the light and sh=
ade;
I see distant lands, as real and near to the inhabitants of them as my land=
=
is
to me.
I see plenteous
waters; I see mountain-peaks--I see the sierras of Andes and Alleghanies, w=
here
=
they
range; I see plainly the Himalayas, Chian Shahs, Altays, Ghauts; I see the
Rocky Mountains, and the Peak of Winds; I see the Styrian Alps, and the Kar=
nac
Alps; I see the Pyrenees, Balks, Carpathians--and to the north the Dofrafie=
lds,
=
and
off at sea Mount Hecla; I see Vesuvius and Etna--I see the Anahuacs; I see =
the
Mountains of the Moon, and the Snow Mountains, and the Red =
Mountains
of Madagascar; I see the Vermont hills, and the long string of Cordilleras;=
I
see the vast deserts of Western America; I see the Libyan, Arabian, and Asi=
atic
deserts; I see huge dreadful Arctic and Anarctic icebergs; I see the superi=
or
oceans and the inferior ones--the Atlantic and Pacific, =
the
sea of Mexico, the Brazilian sea, and the sea of Peru, The Japan waters, th=
ose
of Hindostan, the China Sea, and the Gulf of =
Guinea,
The spread of the Baltic, Caspian, Bothnia, the British shores, and the Bay=
=
of
Biscay, The clear-sunned Mediterranean, and from one to another of its isla=
nds,
The inland fresh-tasted seas of North America, The White Sea, and the sea
around Greenland. I behold the mariners of the world; Some are in storms--s=
ome
in the night, with the watch on the look-out; Some drifting helplessly--some
with contagious diseases.
I behold the sail=
and
steam ships of the world, some in clusters in port, =
some
on their voyages; Some double the Cape of Storms--some Cape Verde,--others =
Cape
Guardafui, =
Bon,
or Bajadore; Others Dondra Head--others pass the Straits of Sunda--others C=
ape
Lopatka-- =
others
Behring's Straits; Others Cape Horn--others the Gulf of Mexico, or along Cu=
ba
or Hayti--others =
Hudson's
Bay or Baffin's Bay; Others pass the Straits of Dover--others enter the
Wash--others the Firth =
of
Solway--others round Cape Clear--others the Land's End; Others traverse the
Zuyder Zee, or the Scheld; Others add to the exits and entrances at Sandy H=
ook;
Others to the comers and goers at Gibraltar, or the Dardanelles; Others ste=
rnly
push their way through the northern winter-packs; Others descend or ascend =
the
Obi or the Lena: Others the Niger or the Congo--others the Indus, the
Burampooter and =
Cambodia;
Others wait at the wharves of Manhattan, steamed up, ready to start; Wait,
swift and swarthy, in the ports of Australia; Wait at Liverpool, Glasgow,
Dublin, Marseilles, Lisbon, Naples, Hamburg, =
Bremen,
Bordeaux, the Hague, Copenhagen; Wait at Valparaiso, Rio Janeiro, Panama; W=
ait
at their moorings at Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New =
Orleans,
Galveston, San Francisco.
5.
I see the tracks =
of
the railroads of the earth; I see them welding State to State, city to city,
through North America; I see them in Great Britain, I see them in Europe; I=
see
them in Asia and in Africa.
I see the electric
telegraphs of the earth; I see the filaments of the news of the wars, death=
s,
losses, gains, =
passions,
of my race.
I see the long
river-stripes of the earth; I see where the Mississippi flows--I see where =
the
Columbia flows; I see the Great River, and the Falls of Niagara; I see the
Amazon and the Paraguay; I see the four great rivers of China, the Amour, t=
he
Yellow River, the =
Yiang-tse,
and the Pearl; I see where the Seine flows, and where the Loire, the Rhone,=
and
the =
Guadalquivir
flow; I see the windings of the Volga, the Dnieper, the Oder; I see the Tus=
can
going down the Arno, and the Venetian along the Po; I see the Greek seaman
sailing out of Egina bay.
6.
I see the site of=
the
old empire of Assyria, and that of Persia, and that =
of
India; I see the falling of the Ganges over the high rim of Saukara. I see =
the
place of the idea of the Deity incarnated by avatars in human =
forms;
I see the spots of the successions of priests on the earth--oracles, =
sacrificers,
brahmins, sabians, lamas, monks, muftis, exhorters; I see where druids walk=
ed
the groves of Mona--I see the mistletoe and =
vervain;
I see the temples of the deaths of the bodies of Gods--I see the old =
signifiers.
I see Christ once
more eating the bread of His last supper, in the midst of =
youths
and old persons: I see where the strong divine young man, the Hercules, toi=
led
faithfully =
and
long, and then died; I see the place of the innocent rich life and hapless =
fate
of the beautiful =
nocturnal
son, the full-limbed Bacchus; I see Kneph, blooming, drest in blue, with the
crown of feathers on his =
head;
I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do =
not
weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true
country--I =
now
go back there, I return to the celestial sphere, where every one goes in his
turn.
7.
I see the
battlefields of the earth--grass grows upon them, and blossoms =
and
corn; I see the tracks of ancient and modern expeditions.
I see the nameless
masonries, venerable messages of the unknown events, =
heroes,
records of the earth; I see the places of the sagas; I see pine-trees and
fir-frees torn by northern blasts; I see granite boulders and cliffs--I see
green meadows and lakes; I see the burial-cairns of Scandinavian warriors; I
see them raised high with stones, by the marge of restless oceans, that
I see the steppes=
of
Asia; I see the tumuli of Mongolia--I see the tents of Kalmucks and Baskirs=
; I
see the nomadic tribes, with herds of oxen and cows; I see the table-lands
notched with ravines--I see the jungles and deserts; I see the camel, the w=
ild
steed, the bustard, the fat-tailed sheep, the =
antelope,
and the burrowing-wolf.
I see the highlan=
ds
of Abyssinia; I see flocks of goats feeding, and see the fig-tree, tamarind,
date, And see fields of teff-wheat, and see the places of verdure and gold.=
I see the Brazili=
an
vaquero; I see the Bolivian ascending Mount Sorata; I see the Wacho crossing
the plains--I see the incomparable rider of horses with his lasso on his ar=
m; I
see over the pampas the pursuit of wild cattle for their hides.
8.
I see little and
large sea-dots, some inhabited, some uninhabited; I see two boats with nets,
lying off the shore of Paumanok, quite still; I see ten fishermen waiting--=
they
discover now a thick school of =
mossbonkers--they
drop the joined sein-ends in the water, The boats separate--they diverge and
row off, each on its rounding course =
to
the beach, enclosing the mossbonkers; The net is drawn in by a windlass by
those who stop ashore, Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats--others
stand negligently =
ankle-deep
in the water, poised on strong legs; The boats are partly drawn up--the wat=
er
slaps against them; On the sand, in heaps and winrows, well out from the
9.
I see the despond=
ent
red man in the west, lingering about the banks of =
Moingo,
and about Lake Pepin; He has heard the quail and beheld the honey-bee, and
sadly prepared to =
depart.
I see the regions=
of
snow and ice; I see the sharp-eyed Samoiede and the Finn; I see the seal-se=
eker
in his boat, poising his lance; I see the Siberian on his slight-built sled=
ge,
drawn by dogs; I see the porpess-hunters--I see the whale-crews of the South
Pacific and =
the
North Atlantic; I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys, of
Switzerland--I mark the =
long
winters, and the isolation.
I see the cities =
of
the earth, and make myself at random a part of them; I am a real Parisian; =
I am
a habitant of Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Constantinople; I am of Adela=
ide,
Sidney, Melbourne; I am of London, Manchester, Bristol, Edinburgh, Limerick=
, I
am of Madrid, Cadiz, Barcelona, Oporto, Lyons, Brussels, Berne, =
Frankfort,
Stuttgart, Turin, Florence; I belong in Moscow, Cracow, Warsaw--or northwar=
d in
Christiania or =
Stockholm--or
in Siberian Irkutsk--or in some street in Iceland; I descend upon all those
cities, and rise from them again.
10.
I see vapours
exhaling from unexplored countries; I see the savage types, the bow and arr=
ow,
the poisoned splint, the fetish, =
and
the obi.
I see African and
Asiatic towns; I see Algiers, Tripoli, Derne, Mogadore, Timbuctoo, Monrovia=
; I
see the swarms of Pekin, Canton, Benares, Delhi, Calcutta, Yedo; I see the
Kruman in his hut, and the Dahoman and Ashantee-man in their =
huts;
I see the Turk smoking opium in Aleppo; I see the picturesque crowds at the
fairs of Khiva, and those of Herat; I see Teheran--I see Muscat and Medina,=
and
the intervening sands--I see =
the
caravans toiling onward; I see Egypt and the Egyptians--I see the pyramids =
and
obelisks; I look on chiselled histories, songs, philosophies, cut in slabs =
of =
sandstone
or on granite blocks; I see at Memphis mummy-pits, containing mummies,
embalmed, swathed in linen =
cloth,
lying there many centuries; I look on the fallen Theban, the large-balled e=
yes,
the side-drooping neck, =
the
hands folded across the breast.
I see the menials=
of
the earth, labouring; I see the prisoners in the prisons; I see the defecti=
ve
human bodies of the earth; I see the blind, the deaf and dumb, idiots,
hunchbacks, lunatics; I see the pirates, thieves, betrayers, murderers,
slave-makers of the =
earth;
I see the helpless infants, and the helpless old men and women.
I see male and fe=
male
everywhere; I see the serene brotherhood of philosophs; I see the
constructiveness of my race; I see the results of the perseverance and indu=
stry
of my race; I see ranks, colours, barbarisms, civilisations--I go among the=
m--I
mix indiscriminately,=
And I
salute all the inhabitants of the earth.
11.
You, where you ar=
e! You
daughter or son of England! You of the mighty Slavic tribes and empires! you
Russ in Russia! You dim-descended, black, divine-souled African, large, fin=
e-headed,
=
nobly-formed,
superbly destined, on equal terms with me! You Norwegian! Swede! Dane!
Icelander! you Prussian! You Spaniard of Spain! you Portuguese! You Frenchw=
oman
and Frenchman of France! You Belge! you liberty-lover of the Netherlands! Y=
ou
sturdy Austrian! you Lombard! Hun! Bohemian! farmer of Styria! You neighbou=
r of
the Danube! You working-man of the Rhine, the Elbe, or the Weser! you
working-woman =
too!
You Sardinian! you Bavarian! Swabian! Saxon! Wallachian! Bulgarian! You cit=
izen
of Prague! Roman! Neapolitan! Greek! You lithe matador in the arena at Sevi=
lle!
You mountaineer living lawlessly on the Taurus or Caucasus! You Bokh
horse-herd, watching your mares and stallions feeding! You beautiful-bodied
Persian, at full speed in the saddle shooting arrows =
to
the mark! You Chinaman and Chinawoman of China! you Tartar of Tartary! You
women of the earth subordinated at your tasks! You Jew journeying in your o=
ld
age through every risk, to stand once on =
Syrian
ground! You other Jews waiting in all lands for your Messiah! You thoughtful
Armenian, pondering by some stream of the Euphrates! you =
peering
amid the ruins of Nineveh! you ascending Mount Ararat! You foot-worn pilgrim
welcoming the far-away sparkle of the minarets of =
Mecca!
You sheiks along the stretch from Suez to Babelmandeb, ruling your families=
=
and
tribes! You olive-grower tending your fruit on fields of Nazareth, Damascus=
, or
=
Lake
Tiberias! You Thibet trader on the wide inland, or bargaining in the shops =
of
Lassa! You Japanese man or woman! you liver in Madagascar, Ceylon, Sumatra,=
=
Borneo!
All you continentals of Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia, indifferent of
Each of us
inevitable; Each of us limitless--each of us with his or her right upon the
earth; Each of us allowed the eternal purports of the earth: Each of us her=
e as
divinely as any is here.
12.
You Hottentot with
clicking palate! You woolly-haired hordes! You owned persons, dropping swea=
t-drops
or blood-drops! You human forms with the fathomless ever-impressive
countenances of brutes! I dare not refuse you--the scope of the world, and =
of
time and space, are =
upon
me.
You poor koboo wh= om the meanest of the rest look down upon, for all your = glimmering language and spirituality! You low expiring aborigines of the hills of Utah, Oregon, California! You dwarfed Kamtschatkan, Greenlander, Lap! You Austral negro, naked, red, sooty, with protrusive lip, grovelling, = seeking your food! You Caffre, Berber, Soudanese! You haggard, uncouth, untutored Bedowee! You plague-swarms in Madras, Nankin, Kaubul, Cairo! You bather bat= hing in the Ganges! You benighted roamer of Amazonia! you Patagonian! you Fejee-= man! You peon of Mexico! you slave of Carolina, Texas, Tennessee! I do not prefer others so very much before you either; I do not say one word against you, a= way back there, where you stand; You will come forward in due time to my side.<= o:p>
My spirit has pas=
sed
in compassion and determination around the whole =
earth;
I have looked for equals and lovers, and found them ready for me in all
13.
O vapours! I thin=
k I
have risen with you, and moved away to distant conti=
nents,
and fallen down there, for reasons; I think I have blown with you, O winds;=
O
waters, I have fingered every shore with you.
I have run through
what any river or strait of the globe has run through; I have taken my stan=
d on
the bases of peninsulas, and on the highest =
embedded
rocks, to cry thence.
Salut au Monde! W=
hat
cities the light or warmth penetrates, I penetrate those cities =
myself;
All islands to which birds wing their way, I wing my way myself.
Toward all I rais=
e high
the perpendicular hand--I make the signal, To remain after me in sight for
ever, For all the haunts and homes of men.
(RECEPTION OF THE
JAPANESE EMBASSY, JUNE 16, 1860.)
1.
Over sea, hither =
from
Niphon, Courteous, the Princes of Asia, swart-cheeked princes, First-comers,
guests, two-sworded princes, Lesson-giving princes, leaning back in their o=
pen
barouches, 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 beho=
ld,
Libertad.
3.
When million-foot=
ed
Manhattan, unpent, descends to its pavements; When the thunder-cracking guns
arouse me with the proud roar I love; When the round-mouthed guns, out of t=
he
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 forests at the wharves, =
thicken
with colours; When every ship, richly dressed, carries her flag at the peak=
; When
pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the windows; When Broadway is
entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-standers-- when the mass is
densest; When the façades 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. To =
us,
my city, Where our tall-topped marble and iron beauties range on opposite
sides--to =
walk
in the space between, To-day our Antipodes comes.
The Originatress
comes, The land of Paradise--land of the Caucasus--the nest of birth, The n=
est
of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, Florid with blood,
pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, Sultry with perfume, with amp=
le
and flowing garments, With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering
eyes, The race of Brahma comes!
See, my cantabile!
these, and more, are flashing to us from the procession; As it moves changi=
ng,
a kaleidoscope divine it moves changing before us.
Not the
errand-bearing princes, nor the tanned Japanee only; Lithe and silent, the
Hindoo appears--the whole Asiatic continent itself =
appears--the
Past, the dead, The murky night-morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable, T=
he
enveloped mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees, The North--the swelteri=
ng
South--Assyria--the Hebrews--the Ancient of =
ancients,
Vast desolated cities--the gliding Present--all of these, and more, are in =
=
the
pageant-procession.
Geography, the wo=
rld,
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 5. For I too, raisin=
g 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 supremacy; I chant, projec=
ted,
a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those groups of sea-isl=
ands; I
chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes; I chant my
stars and stripes fluttering in the wind; I chant commerce opening, the sle=
ep
of ages having done its work--races =
reborn,
refreshed; 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. And you, Libertad=
of
the world! You shall sit in the middle, well-poised, 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 England sends her eldest =
son
to you. The sign is
reversing, the orb is enclosed, The ring is circled, the journey is done; T=
he
box-lid is but perceptibly opened--nevertheless the perfume pours =
copiously
out of the whole box. 6. Young Libertad! W=
ith
the venerable Asia, the all-mother, Be considerate with her, now and ever, =
hot
Libertad--for you are all; Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now
sending messages over the =
archipelagoes
to you: Bend your proud neck for once, young Libertad. 7. 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 foot=
ing
it that way, all the while unknown, for =
you,
for reasons? They are justified--they are accomplished--they shall now be
turned the =
other
way also, to travel toward you thence; They shall now also march obediently
eastward, for your sake, Libertad. 1. Far hence, amid an
isle of wondrous beauty, Crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mothe=
r, Once
a queen--now lean and tattered, seated on the ground, Her old white hair
drooping dishevelled round her shoulders; At her feet fallen an unused royal
harp, Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and heir=
; Of
all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of love. 2. Yet a word, ancie=
nt
mother; You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead
between =
your
knees; O you need not sit there, veiled in your old white hair, so dishevel=
led;
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave; It was an illusion--t=
he
heir, the son you love, was not really dead; The Lord is not dead--he is ri=
sen
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, passed from the grave, The winds favoured, and the sea sail=
ed
it, And now, with rosy and new blood, Moves to-day in a new country. 1. To get betimes in
Boston town, I rose this morning early; Here's a good place at the corner--I
must stand and see the show. 2. Clear the way the=
re,
Jonathan! Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon! W=
ay
for the Federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously =
tumbling. I love to look on=
the
stars and stripes--I hope the fifes will play "Yankee =
Doodle,"
How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his
revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. 3. A fog
follows--antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and =
some
appear bandaged and bloodless. Why this is indee=
d a
show! It has called the dead out of the earth! The old graveyards of the hi=
lls
have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cocked
hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning=
on
young men's shoulders! What troubles you,
Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare =
gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for =
firelocks,
and level them? If you blind your
eyes with tears, you will not see the President's =
marshal;
If you groan such groans, you might baulk the government cannon. For shame, old
maniacs! Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white =
hair
be; Here gape your great grandsons--their wives gaze at them from the windo=
ws, See
how well-dressed--see how orderly they conduct themselves. Worse and worse!
Can't you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too de=
ad
for you? Retreat then!
Pell-mell! To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! I do not t=
hink
you belong here, anyhow. 4. But there is one
thing that belongs here--shall I tell you what it is, =
gentlemen
of Boston? I will whisper it=
to
the Mayor--He shall send a committee to England; They shall get a grant from
the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal =
vault--haste!
Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box =
=
up
his bones for a journey; Find a swift Yankee clipper--here is freight for y=
ou,
black-bellied =
clipper,
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston 5. Now call for the
President's marshal again, bring out the government =
cannon,
Fetch home the roarers from Congress,--make another procession, guard it This centre-piece=
for
them! Look, all orderly citizens! Look from the windows, women! The committee open
the box; set up the regal ribs; glue those that will not =
stay;
Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull. You have got your
revenge, old bluster! The crown is come to its own, and =
more
than its own. 6. Stick your hands =
in
your pockets, Jonathan--you are a made man from this =
day;
You are mighty 'cute--and here is one of your bargains. FRANCE, THE EIGHTEENTH YE=
AR
OF THESE STATES.[1] 1. A great year and
place; A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's
heart =
closer
than any yet. 2. I walked the shor=
es
of my Eastern Sea, Heard over the waves the little voice, Saw the divine
infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of =
cannon,
curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings; Was not so sick from the blood =
in
the gutters running--nor from the single =
corpses,
nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils; Was not so desper=
ate
at the battues of death--was not so shocked at the =
repeated
fusillades of the guns. Pale, silent, ste=
rn,
what could I say to that long-accrued retribution? Could I wish humanity
different? Could I wish the people made of wood and stone? Or that there be=
no
justice in destiny or time? 3. O Liberty! O mate=
for
me! Here too the blaze, the bullet, and the axe, in reserve to fetch them o=
ut =
in
case of need, Here too, though long repressed, can never be destroyed; Here=
too
could rise at last, murdering and ecstatic; Here too demanding full arrears=
of
vengeance. Hence I sign this
salute over the sea, And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,=
But
remember the little voice that I heard wailing--and wait with perfect =
trust,
no matter how long; And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeat=
hed
cause, as for =
all
lands, And I send these words to Paris with my love, And I guess some
chansonniers there will understand them, For I guess there is latent music =
yet
in France--floods of it. O I hear already the bustle of instruments--they w=
ill
soon be drowning all =
that
would interrupt them; O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free
march, It reaches hither--it swells me to joyful madness, I will run transp=
ose
it in words, to justify it, I will yet sing a song for you, ma femme! [Footnote 1:
1793-4---The great poet of Democracy is "not so shocked" at the g=
reat
European year of Democracy.] EUROPE, THE SEVENTY-SECOND
AND SEVENTY-THIRD YEARS OF THESE STATES.[1] 1. Suddenly, out of =
its
stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves, Like lightning it leaped forth, =
half
startled at itself, Its feet upon the ashes and the rags--its hands tight to
the throats of =
kings. O hope and faith!=
O
aching close of exiled patriots' lives! O many a sickened heart! Turn back =
unto
this day, and make yourselves afresh. 2. And you, paid to
defile the People! you liars, mark! Not for numberless agonies, murders, lu=
sts,
For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity =
=
the
poor man's wages, For many a promise sworn by royal lips, and broken, and
laughed at in the =
breaking,
Then in their power, not for all these did the blows strike revenge, or the=
=
heads
of the nobles fall; The People scorned the ferocity of kings. 3. But the sweetness=
of
mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened =
rulers
come back; Each comes in state with his train--hangman, priest, tax-gathere=
r, Soldier,
lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant. 4. Yet behind all,
lowering, stealing--lo, a Shape, Vague as the night, draped interminably, h=
ead,
front, and form, in scarlet =
folds,
Whose face and eyes none may see: Out of its robes only this--the red robes,
lifted by the arm-- One finger crooked, pointed high over the top, like the
head of a snake =
appears. 5. Meanwhile, corpses
lie in new-made graves--bloody corpses of young men; The rope of the gibbet
hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are flying, =
the
creatures of power laugh aloud, And all these things bear fruits--and they =
are
good. Those corpses of
young men, Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets--those hearts pierced by
the grey =
lead,
Cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with unslaughtered =
vitality. They live in other
young men, O kings! They live in brothers, again ready to defy you! They we=
re
purified by death--they were taught and exalted. Not a grave of the murdere=
d for
freedom but grows seed for freedom, in its =
turn
to bear seed, Which the winds carry afar and resow, and the rains and the s=
nows
nourish. Not a disembodied
spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose, But it stalks invisibly over t=
he
earth, whispering, counselling, =
cautioning. 6. Liberty! let othe=
rs
despair of you! I never despair of you. Is the house shut=
? Is
the master away? Nevertheless, be ready--be not weary of watching: He will =
soon
return--his messengers come anon. [Footnote 1: The
years 1848 and 1849.] TO A FOILED REVOLTER OR
REVOLTRESS. 1. Courage! my broth=
er
or my sister! Keep on! Liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs; That is
nothing that is quelled by one or two failures, or any number of =
failures,
Or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people, or by any =
unfaithfulness,
Or the show of the tushes of power, soldiers, cannon, penal statutes. 2. What we believe in
waits latent for ever through all the continents, and =
all
the islands and archipelagoes of the sea. What we believe in
invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and =
light,
is positive and composed, knows no discouragement, Waiting patiently, waiti=
ng
its time. 3. The battle rages =
with
many a loud alarm, and frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs--=
or
supposes he triumphs, The prison, scaffold, garrote, handcuffs, iron neckla=
ce
and anklet, lead- =
balls,
do their work, The named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres, The great
speakers and writers are exiled--they lie sick in distant lands, The cause =
is
asleep--the strongest throats are still, choked with their own blood, The y=
oung
men drop their eyelashes toward the ground when they meet; But, for all thi=
s,
Liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the infidel =
entered
into possession. When Liberty goes=
out
of a place, it is not the first to go, nor the second =
or
third to go, It waits for all the rest to go--it is the last. When there are no
more memories of heroes and martyrs, And when all life and all the souls of=
men
and women are discharged from =
any
part of the earth, Then only shall Liberty be discharged from that part of =
the
earth, And the infidel and the tyrant come into possession. 4. Then courage! rev=
olter!
revoltress! For till all ceases neither must you cease. 5. I do not know what
you are for, (I do not know what I am for myself, nor =
what
anything is for,) But I will search carefully for it even in being foiled, =
In
defeat, poverty, imprisonment--for they too are great. Did we think vict=
ory
great? So it is--But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped, that def=
eat
is =
great,
And that death and dismay are great. 1. First, O songs, f=
or a
prelude, Lightly strike on the stretched tympanum, pride and joy in my city=
, How
she led the rest to arms--how she gave the cue, How at once with lithe limb=
s,
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. 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, Incensed, struck with clenched hand the pavement. A shock electric-=
-the
night sustained it; Till, with ominous hum, our hive at daybreak poured out=
its
myriads. From the houses t=
hen,
and the workshops, and through all the doorways, Leaped they tumultuous--and
lo! Manhattan arming. 3. To the drum-taps
prompt, The young men falling in and arming; The mechanics arming, the trow=
el,
the jack-plane, the black-smith's hammer, =
tossed
aside with precipitation; The lawyer leaving his office, and arming--the ju=
dge
leaving the court; The driver deserting his waggon in the street, jumping d=
own,
throwing the =
reins
abruptly down on the horses' backs; The salesman leaving the store--the bos=
s,
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 armed sentries
around--the sunrise =
cannon,
and again at sunset; Armed regiments arrive every day, pass through the cit=
y,
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 covered with dust! The blood of the city up--armed! armed! 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 favourites; T=
he
artillery--the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble =
lightly
over the stones; Silent cannons--soon to cease your silence, Soon, unlimber=
ed,
to begin the red business! All the mutter of preparation--all the determined
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 armed race is advancing!--the welcome for battle--no turning a=
way;
War! be it weeks, months, or years--an armed race is advancing to welcome <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
it. 4. Mannahatta
a-march!--and it's O to sing it well! It's O for a manly life in the camp!<=
o:p> 5. 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. 6. And you, Lady of
Ships! you, Mannahatta! Old matron of the city! this proud, friendly, turbu=
lent
city! Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frowned amid =
all your
children; But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta! 1861. Armed 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 pia=
no; 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 acr=
oss
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, Rapi=
dly
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 determined voice, launched forth again and again; Y=
ear
that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon, I repeat you,
hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year. 1. Rise, O days, from
your fathomless deeps, till you loftier and fiercer =
sweep!
Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devoured what the earth gave me; L=
ong
I roamed the woods of the North--long I watched Niagara pouring; I travelled
the prairies over, and slept on their breast--I crossed the =
Nevadas,
I crossed the plateaus; I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I
sailed out to sea; I sailed through the storm, I was refreshed by the storm=
; I
watched with joy the threatening maws of the waves; I marked the white combs
where they careered so high, curling over; I heard the wind piping, I saw t=
he
black clouds; Saw from below what arose and mounted, (O superb! O wild as my
heart, and =
powerful!)
Heard the continuous thunder, as it bellowed 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 so=
ul I
fed--I fed content, supercilious. 2. 'Twas well, O sou=
l!
'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 citie=
s; Something
for us is pouring now, more than Niagara pouring; Torrents of men, (sources=
and
rills of the North-west, 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? W=
as
the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds? Lo! from deeps mo=
re
unfathomable, something more deadly and savage; Manhattan, rising, advancing
with menacing front--Cincinnati, Chicago, =
unchained;
--What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold what comes here! How it cl=
imbs
with daring feet and hands! how it dashes! How the true thunder bellows aft=
er
the lightning! how bright the flashes of =
lightning!
How DEMOCRACY with desperate vengeful port strides on, shown through the 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 walked my cities, my country roads, through farms, on=
ly
half =
satisfied; One doubt,
nauseous, undulating like a snake, crawled on the ground before =
me,
Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically hissing 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, ploughing his field or gathering his 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 hous=
es?
No sleepers must =
sleep
in those beds; No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--W=
ould
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 t=
he
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. SONG OF THE BANNER AT
DAYBREAK. O a new song, a free song, Flapping,
flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer, By the wind's v=
oice
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 daybrea=
k is
flapping. Words! book-words!
what are you? Words no more, for hearken and see, My song is there in the o=
pen
air--and I must sing, With the banner and pennant a-flapping. I'll weave the ch=
ord
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 whi=
zz; 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. Come up here, bard, bard; Come up h=
ere,
soul, soul; Come up here, dear little child, To fly in the clouds and winds
with us, and play with the measureless =
light. CHILD.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char> Father, what is t=
hat
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, L=
ook
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: T=
hese!
ah, these! how valued and toiled for, these! How envied by all the earth! Fresh and rosy re=
d,
the sun is mounting high; On floats the sea in distant blue, careering thro=
ugh
its channels; On floats the wind over the breast of the sea, setting in tow=
ard
land; The great steady wind from west and west-by-south, Floating so buoyan=
t,
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 lash=
es
its own body to terror and death: But I am of that which unseen comes and
sings, sings, sings, Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the l=
and;
Which the birds know in the woods, mornings and evenings, And the shore-san=
ds
know, and the hissing wave, and that banner and pennant, Aloft there flapping and
flapping. CHILD.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char> 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 cove=
rs
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-walled houses. Speak to the chil=
d, O
bard, out of Manhattan; Speak to our children all, or north or south of
Manhattan, Where our factory-engines hum, where our miners delve the ground=
, Where
our hoarse Niagara rumbles, where our prairie-ploughs are ploughing; 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? 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 he=
ar
the drums beat, and the trumpets blowing; I myself move abroad, swift-risin=
g,
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 fi=
elds
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 <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
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 a while, hovering; I pas=
s 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, 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 harbours--see ships sailing in and
out; Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthened pennant shaped lik=
e a =
sword
Runs swiftly up, indicating war and defiance--And now the halyards have Yet louder, highe=
r,
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 CHILD.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char> O my father, I li=
ke
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 pennan=
t 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 k=
now
what it is this day, and henceforth for ever; It is to gain nothing, but ri=
sk
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? Demons and death =
then
I sing; Put in all, aye all, will I--sword-shaped pennant for war, and bann=
er
so =
broad
and blue, And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of chi=
ldren,
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 Mississip=
pi,
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. Aye all! for ever,
for all! From sea to sea, north and south, east and west, Fusing and holdin=
g,
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. My limbs, my veins
dilate; The blood of the world has filled me full--my theme is clear at las=
t. --Banner
so broad, advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and =
resolute;
I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafened and blinded; My sig=
ht,
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; Insensa=
te!
insensate! yet I at any rate chant you, O banner! Not houses of peace are y=
ou,
nor any nor all their prosperity; if need be, you shall have every one of t=
hose
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, 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 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 by spots of kindled fire--the silence; Like a phantom far or =
near
an occasional figure moving; The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they =
seem
to be stealthily =
watching
me;) While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous 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. BIVOUAC ON A MOUNTAIN-SID=
E. I see before me now a travelling ar=
my
halting; Below, a fertile valley spread, with barns, and the orchards of
summer; Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt in places, rising
high; Broken with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes, dingily se=
en; The
numerous camp-fires scattered 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. =
seized
by me, And I am seized by them, and friendlily held by them, Till, as here,
them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you.
=
with
foot and dragoons.
=
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.
City of ships! (O the black ships! =
O the
fierce ships! O the beautiful, sharp-bowed steam-ships and sail-ships!) Cit=
y 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 ci=
ty! 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 offered me--whom you adopted, I
have adopted; Good or bad, I never question you--I love all--I do not conde=
mn
anything; I chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more; In pe=
ace
I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine; War, red war, is my song
through your streets, O city!
VIGIL strange I kept on the field o=
ne
night, When you, my son and my comrade, dropped at my side that day. One lo=
ok I
but gave, which your dear eyes returned with a look I shall =
never
forget; One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reached up as you lay on the
ground. Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle; Till, =
late
in the night relieved, 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 battlefield =
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 on=
es
upward stole; Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift =
was
your =
death,
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
appeared, My comrade I wrapped in his blanket, enveloped well his form, Fol=
ded
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 deposited; Ending my vigil strange with that--vigil of ni=
ght
and battlefield dim; Vigil for boy of responding kisses, never again on ear=
th
responding; Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget--how as d=
ay =
brightened
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--delicate f=
lag! 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 s=
ee
you peering down on the sailors on the decks! Flag like the eyes of women.<=
o:p>
A march in the ranks hard-pressed, =
and
the road unknown; A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the
darkness; Our army foiled with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreati=
ng; Till
after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted building; We com=
e 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 a=
nd
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 abdomen;) I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngste=
r's
face is white as a lily;) Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the sce=
ne,
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, th=
e =
odour
of blood; The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers--the yard
outside =
also
filled; 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 odour; Then h=
ear
outside the orders given, Fall 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, ca=
lmly
close: and I speed forth to the darkness, Resuming, marching, as ever in
darkness marching, on in the ranks, The unknown road still marching.
1.
A sight in camp in
the daybreak 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 ea=
ch
the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen 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-greyed
hair, and =
flesh
all sunken about the eyes? Who are you, my dear comrade?
Then to the secon=
d I
step--And who are you, my child and darling? Who are you, sweet boy, with
cheeks yet blooming?
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 fac=
e of
=
the
Christ Himself; Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again He lies.=
1.
As toilsome I
wandered Virginia's woods, To the music of rustling leaves kicked by my
feet--for 'twas autumn-- I marked at the foot of a tree the grave of a sold=
ier;
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 O=
n a
tablet scrawled and nailed 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.
1.
An old man bendin=
g, I
come among new faces, Years, looking backward, resuming, in answer to child=
ren,
"Come tell us, old man," (as from young men and maidens that love=
me,
Years hence) "of these scenes, of th=
ese
furious passions, these chances, Of unsurpassed heroes--(was one side so br=
ave?
the other was equally brave) Now be witness again--paint the mightiest armi=
es
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 you=
ng
men I love, and that love me, What you ask of my days, those the strangest =
and
sudden your talking =
recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, covered 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 captured 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.)
But in silence, in
dreams' 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.) 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 roofed hospital; To the long ro=
ws
of cots, up and down, each side, I return; To each and all, one after anoth=
er,
I draw near--not one do I miss; An attendant follows, holding a tray--he
carries a refuse-pail, Soon to be filled with clotted rags and blood, empti=
ed,
and filled again.
I onward go, I st=
op, With
hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds; I am firm with each--the pan=
gs
are sharp, yet unavoidable; 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.
On, on I go--(ope=
n,
doors of time! open, hospital doors!) The crushed head I dress (poor crazed
hand, tear not the bandage away;) The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bul=
let
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.
From the stump of=
the
arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash o=
ff
the matter and blood; Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curved nec=
k,
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.
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.
I dress the
perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet 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.
I am faithful, I =
do
not give out; The fractured thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, These
and more I dress with impassive hand--yet deep in my breast a fire, a =
burning
flame.
3.
Thus in silence, =
in
dreams' projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the
hospitals; The hurt and the wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by t=
he 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
crossed and rested, Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.
1.
"Come up from
the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete; And come to the front do=
or,
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 trellised vines; =
Smell
you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat, where the
bees were lately buzzing?
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.
3.
Down in the fields
all prospers well; But now from the fields come, father--come at the daught=
er's
call; And come to the entry, mother--to the front door come, right away.
Fast as she can s=
he
hurries--something ominous--her steps trembling; She does not tarry to smoo=
th
her white hair, nor adjust her cap.
4.
Open the envelope
quickly; O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is signed; O a stran=
ge
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, tak=
en =
to
hospital, At present low, but will soon be better."
5.
Ah, now the single
figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and fa=
rms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a
door leans.
6.
"Grieve not =
so,
dear mother," the just-grown daughter speaks through her =
sobs;
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed; "See, deare=
st
mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better."
7.
Alas! poor boy, he
will never be better, (nor maybe 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.
But the mother ne=
eds
to be better; She, with thin form, presently dressed in black; By day her m=
eals
untouched--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!
1.
In clouds descend=
ing,
in midnight sleep, of many a face in battle, Of the look at first of the
mortally wounded, of that indescribable look, Of the dead on their backs, w=
ith
arms extended wide-- I dream, I dream,=
I
dream.
2.
Of scenes of natu=
re,
the fields and the mountains, Of the skies so beauteous after the storm, an=
d at
night the moon so unearthly bright, Shining sweetly, shining down, where we=
dig
the trenches, and gather the heaps-- I dream, I dream,=
I
dream.
3.
Long have they
passed, long lapsed--faces, and trenches, and fields: Long through the carn=
age
I moved with a callous composure, or away from the fallen Onward I sped at =
the
time. But now of their faces and forms, at night, I dream, I dream,=
I
dream.
While my wife at my side lies slumb=
ering,
and the wars are over long, And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the
mystic 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 sound of the different missiles--the short t-h-t! t-h-t! o=
f =
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 t=
he
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 t=
heir
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 brandished sword; I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys,
quickly filled up--no delay; I breathe the suffocating smoke--then the flat
clouds hover low, concealing =
all;
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 <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
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, an=
d 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 a=
nd
red, I heed not-- =
some
to the rear are hobbling; Grime, heat, rush--aides-de-camp 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-coloured rockets.
O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE BOY.<=
/span>
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 looked on each other, When=
lo!
more than all the gifts of the world you gave me.
1.
Give me the splen=
did
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 unmowed grass grow=
s; Give
me an arbour, give me the trellised grape; Give me fresh corn and wheat--gi=
ve
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 beaut=
iful
flowers, where I can walk =
undisturbed;
Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman, of whom I should never tire; G=
ive
me a perfect child--give me, away, aside from the noise of the world, =
a
rural domestic life; Give me to warble spontaneous songs, relieved, 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 =
racked
by the war-strife, These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries fro=
m my
heart, While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city; Day upon da=
y,
and year upon year, O city, walking your streets, Where you hold me enchain=
ed a
certain time, refusing to give me up, Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich=
ed
of soul--you give me for ever =
faces;
O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries; I see my =
own
soul trampling down what it asked for.
2.
Keep your splendid
silent sun; Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods; K=
eep
your fields of clover and timothy, and your cornfields and orchards; Keep t=
he
blossoming buckwheat fields, where the ninth-month bees hum. Give me faces =
and
streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless =
along
the trottoirs! Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades a=
nd
lovers by =
the
thousand! Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand e=
very
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, flus=
hed
and =
reckless;
Some, their time up, returning, with thinned ranks--young, yet very old, =
worn,
marching, noticing nothing; --Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-frin=
ged
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 salo=
on
of the steamer, the crowded excursion, for me! the torchlight =
procession!
The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high-piled military waggons following; People,
endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants; Manhattan stree=
ts,
with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as =
now;
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, even the
1.
Over the carnage =
rose
prophetic a voice,-- Be not disheartened--Affection shall solve the problem=
s of
Freedom yet; Those who love each other shall become invincible--they shall =
yet
make =
Columbia
victorious.
Sons of the Mothe=
r of
all! you shall yet be victorious! You shall yet laugh to scorn the attacks =
of
all the remainder of the earth.
No danger shall b=
aulk
Columbia's lovers; If need be, a thousand shall sternly immolate themselves=
for
one.
One from
Massachusetts shall be a Missourian's comrade; From Maine and from hot
Carolina, and another an Oregonese, shall be =
friends
triune, More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth.
To Michigan, Flor=
ida
perfumes shall tenderly come; Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and
wafted beyond death.
It shall be custo=
mary
in the houses and streets to see manly affection; The most dauntless and ru=
de
shall touch face to face lightly; The dependence of Liberty shall be lovers=
, The
continuance of Equality shall be comrades.
These shall tie y=
ou
and band you stronger than hoops of iron; I, ecstatic, O partners! O lands!
with the love of lovers tie you.
2.
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.
Pensive, on her dead gazing, I hear=
d the
Mother of all, Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the
battlefields, =
gazing;
As she called to her earth with mournful voice while she stalked. "Abs=
orb
them well, O my earth!" she cried--"I charge you, lose not my son=
s! =
lose
not an atom; And you, streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood; A=
nd
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,
reddened; And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future tree=
s, My
dead absorb--my young men's beautiful bodies absorb--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 odour of surface and grass, centuries hence; In blowi=
ng
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."
1.
Not alone our cam=
ps
of white, O soldiers, When, as ordered 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, A=
nd a
word provided for countersign, careful for safety; Till to the call of the
drummers at daybreak loudly beating the drums, We rise up refreshed, the ni=
ght
and sleep passed 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 k=
eep
filling, With a mystic army, (is it too ordered forward? is it too only hal=
ting
a =
while,
Till night and sleep pass over?)
Now in those camp=
s 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 moonlight, content and =
silent
there at last; Behold the mighty bivouac-field and waiting-camp of us and o=
urs
and all, Of our corps and generals all, and the President over the corps an=
d =
generals
all, And of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we fig=
ht, There
without hatred we shall all meet.
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 dru=
mmer
to beat the morning drum.
DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS.=
span>
1.
The last sunbeam Lightly falls fro=
m the
finished Sabbath On the pavement here--and, there beyond, it is looking
2.
Lo! the moon ascending! Up from the
east, the silvery round moon; Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phant=
om
moon; Immense and silent
moon.
3.
I see a sad procession, And I hear=
the
sound of coming full-keyed bugles; All the channels of the city streets the=
y're
flooding, As with voice=
s and
with tears.
4.
I hear the great drums pounding, A=
nd the
small drums steady whirring; And every blow of the great convulsive drums <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Strikes me through and throug=
h.
5.
For the son is brought with the fa=
ther; In
the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell; Two veterans, son and
father, dropped together, And
the double grave awaits them.
6.
Now nearer blow the bugles, And the
drums strike more convulsive; And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has
faded, And the strong
dead-march enwraps me.
7.
In the eastern sky up-buoying, The
sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, 'Tis some mother's large, transpare=
nt
face, In heaven brighter
growing.
8.
O strong dead-march, you please me= ! O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! O my soldiers twain! O = my veterans, passing to burial! What I have I also give you.<= o:p>
9.
The moon gives you lig=
ht, And
the bugles and the drums give you music; And my heart, O my soldiers, my
veterans, My
heart gives you love.
How solemn, as one by one, As the r=
anks
returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where I =
stand;
As the faces, the masks appear--as I glance at the faces, studying the =
masks;
As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you=
=
are;--
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to =
=
you!
I see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul. O the bullet could ne=
ver
kill what you really are, dear friend, Nor the bayonet stab what you really
are. --The soul, yourself, I see, great as any, good as the best, Waiting
secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill, Nor the bayonet sta=
b, O
friend!
1.
One breath, O my
silent soul! A perfumed 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, a=
ll
on their spirited horses, With their sabres drawn and glistening, and carbi=
nes
clanking by their =
thighs--(ah,
my brave horsemen! My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! =
what
life, what joy and pride, With all the perils, were yours!)
Nor you
drummers--neither at reveillé, at dawn, Nor the long roll alarming t=
he
camp--nor even the muffled beat for a =
burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.
3.
But aside from th=
ese,
and the crowd's hurrahs, and the land's =
congratulations,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless, I ch=
ant
this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.
4.
Faces so pale, wi=
th
wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet; Draw close, but speak not. Pha=
ntoms,
welcome, divine and tender! Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my
companions; Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live!
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.
Dearest comrades!=
all
now is over; But love is not over--and what love, O comrades! Perfume from
battlefields rising--up from foetor arising.
Perfume therefore=
my
chant, O love! immortal love! Give me to bathe the memories of all dead
soldiers.
Perfume all! make=
all
wholesome! O love! O chant! solve all with the last chemistry.
Give me
exhaustless--make me a fountain, That I exhale love from me wherever I go, =
For
the sake of all dead soldiers.
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 years 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; Wh=
ile
the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders; While I look on=
the
bayonets bristling over their shoulders; While those slanted bayonets, whole
forests of them, appearing in the =
distance,
approach and pass on, returning homeward, Moving with steady motion, swayin=
g to
and fro, to the right and left, Evenly, lightly, rising and falling, as 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! 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 soiled world. For my enemy is dead--a man divine as my=
self
is dead. I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin--I draw
near; I bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coff=
in.
To the leavened soil they trod, cal=
ling,
I sing, for the last; Not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead: But
forth from my tent emerging for good--loosing, untying the tent-ropes; In t=
he
freshness, the forenoon air, in the far-stretching circuits and =
vistas,
again to peace restored; To the fiery fields emanative, and the endless vis=
tas
beyond--to the south =
and
the north; To the leavened soil of the general Western World, to attest my
songs, To the average earth, the wordless earth, witness of war and peace, =
To
the Alleghanian hills, and the tireless Mississippi, To the rocks I, callin=
g,
sing, and all the trees in the woods, To the plain of the poems of heroes, =
to
the prairie spreading wide, To the far-off sea, and the unseen winds, and t=
he
sane impalpable air. And responding they answer all, (but not in words,) The
average earth, the witness of war and peace, acknowledges mutely; The prair=
ie
draws me close, as the father, to bosom broad, the son:-- The Northern ice =
and
rain, that began me, nourish me to the end; But the hot sun of the South is=
to
ripen my songs.
WALT WHITMAN - ASSIMILATI=
ONS.
1.
There was a child
went forth every day; And the first object he looked upon, that object he
became; And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of
the =
day,
or for many years, or tretching cycles of years.
2.
The early lilacs
became part of this child, And grass, and white and red morning-glories,[1]=
and
white and red clover, =
and
the song of the phoebe-bird,[2] And the Third-month lambs, and the sow's
pink-faint litter, and the mare's =
foal,
and the cow's calf, And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of=
the
pond-side, And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there--and=
the
=
beautiful,
curious liquid, And the water-plants with their graceful fiat heads--all be=
came
part of =
him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part or him;
3. Winter-grain sprouts, and those =
of the
light-yellow corn, and the esculent =
roots
of the garden, And the apple-trees covered with blossoms, and the fruit
afterward, and =
wood-berries,
and the commonest weeds by the road; And the old drunkard staggering home f=
rom
the outhouse of the tavern, =
whence
he had lately risen, And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the
school, And the friendly boys that passed, and the quarrelsome boys, And the
tidy and fresh-cheeked girls, and the barefoot negro boy and girl, And all =
the
changes of city and country, wherever he went.
His own parents; =
He that
had fathered him, and she that had conceived him in her womb, and =
birthed
him, They gave this child more of themselves than that; They gave him after=
ward
every day--they became part of him. The mother at home, quietly placing the
dishes on the supper-table; The mother with mild words--clean her cap and g=
own,
a wholesome odour =
falling
off her person and clothes as she walks by; The father, strong,
self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust; The blow, the quick loud wor=
d,
the tight bargain, the crafty lure, The family usages, the language, the
company, the furniture--the yearning =
and
swelling heart, Affection that will not be gainsaid--the sense of what is
real--the thought =
if
after all it should prove unreal, The doubts of day-time and the doubts of
night-time--the curious whether =
and
how-- Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?=
Men
and women crowding fast in the streets--if they are not flashes and =
specks,
what are they? The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, and
goods in the =
windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-planked wharves--the huge crossing at the =
ferries,
The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunset--the river between; S=
hadows,
aureola and mist, light falling on roofs and gables of white or =
brown,
three miles off; The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tide--the
little boat =
slack-towed
astern, The hurrying tumbling waves quick-broken crests slapping, The strat=
a of
coloured clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary =
by
itself-the spread of purity it lies motionless in, The horizon's edge, the
flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and =
shore
mud;-- These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now
goes, =
and
will always go forth every day.
[Footnote 1: The =
name
of "morning-glory" is given to the bindweed, or a sort of bindwee=
d,
in America. I am not certain whether this expressive name is used in Englan=
d also.]
[Footnote 2: A
dun-coloured little bird with a cheerful note, sounding like the word Phoeb=
e.]
1.
Out of the rocked
cradle, Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the
Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where =
the
child, leaving his =
bed,
wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot, Down from the showered halo, Up from =
the
mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting; as if they were =
alive,
Out from the patches of briars and blackberries, From the memories of the b=
irds
that chanted to me, From your memories, sad brother--from the fitful risings
and fallings I =
heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,=
From
those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent =
mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, From the myriad
thence-aroused words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any,--=
From
such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, risi=
ng,
or overhead passing, Borne hither--ere all eludes me, hurriedly,-- A man--y=
et
by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting=
the
waves, I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking a=
ll
hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond =
them,
A reminiscence sing.
2.
Once, Paumanok, W=
hen
the snows had melted, and the Fifth-month grass =
was
growing, Up this sea-shore, in some briars, Two guests from Alabama--two
together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown; And
every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, And every day the she-bird,
crouched on her nest, silent, =
with
bright eyes; And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never =
disturbing
them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
3.
Shine! shine! shi=
ne! Pour
down your warmth, great Sun! While we bask--we two together.
Two together! Win=
ds
blow South, or winds blow North, Day come white or night come black, Home, =
or
rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, If we two
but keep together.
4.
Till of a sudden,=
Maybe
killed, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the
nest, Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appeared again.
And thenceforward,
all summer, in the sound of the sea, And at night, under the full of the mo=
on,
in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from bri=
ar
to briar by day, I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bir=
d, The
solitary guest from Alabama.
5.
Blow! blow! blow! Blow up, sea-wind=
s,
along Paumanok's shore! I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.
6.
Yes, when the sta=
rs
glistened. All night long, on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, Down, al=
most
amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.
He called on his
mate; He poured forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. Yes, my broth=
er,
I know; The rest might not--but I have treasured every note; For once, and =
more
than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding, Silent, avoiding the moonbeams,
blending myself with the shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the ech=
oes,
the sounds and sights after =
their
sorts, The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare
feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listened long and long.
Listened, to keep=
, to
sing--now translating the notes, Following you, my brother.
7.
Soothe! soothe!
soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind,
embracing and lapping, every one close,-- But my love soothes not me, not m=
e.
Low hangs the
moon--it rose late; O it is lagging--O I think it is heavy with love, with
love.
O madly the sea
pushes, pushes upon the land, With love--with love. O night! do I not see my
love fluttering out there among the breakers? What is that little black thi=
ng I
see there in the white?
Loud! loud! loud!=
Loud.
I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves; Sur=
ely
you must know who is here, is here; You must know who I am, my love.
Low-hanging moon!=
What
is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? O it is the shape, the shape of my
mate! O moon, do not keep her from me any longer!
Land! land! O lan=
d! Whichever
way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if =
you
only would; For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.
O rising stars! P=
erhaps
the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.
O throat! O tremb=
ling
throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth; =
Somewhere,
listening to catch you, must be the one I want.
Shake out, carols=
! Solitary
here--the night's carols! Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols! Carols u=
nder
that lagging, yellow, waning moon! O, under that moon, where she droops alm=
ost
down into the sea! O reckless, despairing carols!
But soft! sink lo=
w; Soft!
let me just murmur; And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea; For
somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint--I must be
still, be still to listen; But not altogether still, for then she might not
come immediately to me.
Hither, my love! =
Here
I am! Here! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you; This ge=
ntle
call is for you, my love, for you!
Do not be decoyed
elsewhere! That is the whistle of the wind--it is not my voice; That is the
fluttering, the flattering of the spray; Those are the shadows of leaves.
O darkness! O in
vain! O I am very sick and sorrowful!
O brown halo in t=
he
sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea! O troubled reflection in the sea=
! O
throat! O throbbing heart! O all!--and I singing uselessly, uselessly all t=
he
night.!
Yet I murmur, mur=
mur
on! O murmurs--you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why.
O past! O life! O
songs of joy! In the air--in the woods--over fields; Loved! loved! loved!
loved! loved! But my love no more, no more with me! We two together no more=
!
8.
The aria sinking;=
All
else continuing--the stars shining, The winds blowing--the notes of the bird
continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old Mother incessantly moan=
ing,
On the sands of Paumanok's shore, grey and rustling; The yellow half-moon
enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea =
almost
touching; The boy ecstatic--with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the=
=
atmosphere,
dallying, The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuou=
sly =
bursting;
The aria's meaning the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing, The strange tears
down the cheeks coursing; The colloquy there--the trio--each uttering; The
undertone--the savage old Mother, incessantly crying, To the boy's soul's
questions sullenly timing--some drowned secret hissing To the outsetting ba=
rd
of love.
9.
Demon or bird! (s=
aid
the boy's soul,) Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to=
me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, Now I have heard you, No=
w in
a moment I know what I am for--I awake; And already a thousand singers--a t=
housand
songs, clearer, louder, and more =
sorrowful
than yours, A thousand warbling echoes, have started to life within me, Nev=
er
to die.
O you singer,
solitary, singing by yourself--projecting me; O solitary me, listening--nev=
er
more shall I cease perpetuating you; Never more shall I escape, never more,=
the
reverberations, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,=
Never
again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in =
the
night, By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon, The messenger there
aroused--the fire, the sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of =
me.
O give me the clu=
e!
(it lurks in the night here somewhere;) O if I am to have so much, let me h=
ave
more! O a word! O what is my destination? I fear it is henceforth chaos;-- O
how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes and all shapes, spring as =
from
graves around me!
O phantoms! you c=
over
all the land, and all the sea! O I cannot see in the dimness whether you sm=
ile
or frown upon me; O vapour, a look, a word! O well-beloved! O you dear wome=
n's
and men's phantoms!
A word then, (for=
I
will conquer it,) The word final, superior to all, Subtle, sent up--what is
it?--I listen; Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-w=
aves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?
10.
Whereto answering,
the Sea, Delaying not, hurrying not, Whispered me through the night, and ve=
ry
plainly before daybreak, Lisped to me the low and delicious word DEATH; And
again Death--ever Death, Death, Death, Hissing melodious, neither like the =
bird
nor like my aroused child's heart, But edging near, as privately for me,
rustling at my feet, Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me
softly all over, Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.
Which I do not
forget, But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, That he sang to me=
in
the moonlight on Paumanok's grey beach, With the thousand responsive songs,=
at
random, My own songs, awaked from that hour; And with them the key, the wor=
d up
from the waves, The word of the sweetest song, and all songs, That strong a=
nd
delicious word which, creeping to my feet, The Sea whispered me.
CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY.<=
/span>
1.
Flood-tide below =
me!
I watch you face to face; Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I
see you also face to =
face.
2.
Crowds of men and
women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are =
to
me! On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home=
, =
are
more curious to me than you suppose; And you that shall cross from shore to
shore years hence are more to me, =
and
more in my meditations, than you might suppose.
3.
The impalpable
sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day; The simple, comp=
act,
well-joined scheme--myself disintegrated, every one =
disintegrated,
yet part of the scheme; The similitudes of the past, and those of the futur=
e; The
glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings--on the =
walk
in the street, and the passage over the river; The current rushing so swift=
ly,
and swimming with me far away; The others that are to follow me, the ties
between me and them; The certainty of others--the life, love, sight, hearin=
g,
of others.
Others will enter= the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore; Others will watch the ru= n of the flood-tide; Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, a= nd the heights = of Brooklyn to the south and east; Others will see the islands large and small= ; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour = high; A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see= = them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back <= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> = to the sea of the ebb-tide. It avails not, neither time nor place--distance av= ails not; I am with you--you men and women of a generation, or ever so many = generations hence; I project myself--also I return--I am with you, and know how it is.<= o:p>
Just as you feel =
when
you look on the river and sky, so I felt; Just as any of you is one of a li=
ving
crowd, I was one of a crowd; Just as you are refreshed by the gladness of t=
he
river and the bright flow, I was refreshed; Just as you stand and lean on t=
he
rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I =
stood,
yet was hurried; Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the=
=
thick-stemmed
pipes of steamboats, I looked.
I too many and ma=
ny a
time crossed the river, the sun half an hour high; I watched the twelfth-mo=
nth
sea-gulls--I saw them high in the air, floating =
with
motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, I saw how the glistening yellow=
lit
up parts of their bodies, and left the =
rest
in strong shadow, I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging
toward the south.
I too saw the
reflection of the summer sky in the water, Had my eyes dazzled by the
shimmering track of beams, Looked at the fine centrifugal spokes of light r=
ound
the shape of my head =
in
the sun-lit water, Looked on the haze on the hills southward and southwestw=
ard,
Looked on the vapour as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, Looked toward
the lower bay to notice the arriving ships, Saw their approach, saw aboard
those that were near me, Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops, saw t=
he
ships at anchor, The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spa=
rs. The
round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine =
pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their =
pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the =
wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sunset, The scallop-edged
waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome =
crests
and glistening, The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the grey walls =
of
the granite =
store-houses
by the docks, On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely fla=
nked
on each =
side
by the barges--the hay-boat, the belated lighter, On the neighbouring shore,
the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high =
and
glaringly into the night, Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with w=
ild
red and yellow light, =
over
the tops of houses and down into the clefts of streets.
These, and all el=
se,
were to me the same as they are to you; I project myself a moment to tell
you--also I return.
I loved well those
cities; I loved well the stately and rapid river; The men and women I saw w=
ere
all near to me; Others the same--others who look back on me because I looked
forward to =
them;
The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.
What is it, then,
between us? What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us=
?
Whatever it is, it
avails not--distance avails not, and place avails not.
I too
lived--Brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine; I too walked the streets of
Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters =
around
it; I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me; In the day,
among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me, In my walks home late =
at
night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me.
I too had been st=
ruck
from the float for ever held in solution, I too had =
received
identity by my Body; That I was, I knew, was of my body--and what I should =
be,
I knew, I should =
be
of my body.
It is not upon you
alone the dark patches fall, The dark threw patches down upon me also; The =
best
I had done seemed to me blank and suspicious; My great thoughts, as I suppo=
sed
them, were they not in reality meagre? =
would
not people laugh at me?
It is not you alo=
ne
who know what it is to be evil; I am he who knew what it was to be evil; I =
too
knitted the old knot of contrariety, Blabbed, blushed, resented, lied, stol=
e,
grudged; Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak; Was wayward,
vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant; The wolf, the snake, the h=
og,
not wanting in me; The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wi=
sh,
not wanting; Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of th=
ese
wanting.
But I was
Manhattanese, friendly and proud! I was called by my nighest name by clear =
loud
voices of young men as they =
saw
me approaching or passing, Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the
negligent leaning of their =
flesh
against me as I sat; Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or publ=
ic
assembly, yet =
never
told them a word; Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing,
gnawing, =
sleeping;
Played the part that still looks back on the actor or actress, The same old
rôle, the rôle that is what we make it,--as great as we like, O=
r as
small as we like, or both great and small.
Closer yet I appr=
oach
you: What thought you have of me, I had as much of you-- I laid in my store=
s in
advance; I considered long and seriously of you before you were born.
Who was to know w=
hat
should come home to me? Who knows but I am enjoying this? Who knows but I a=
m as
good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see =
me?
It is not you alo=
ne,
nor I alone; Not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries; I=
t is
that each came or comes or shall come from its due emission, without fail,
either now or then or henceforth.
Everything
indicates--the smallest does, and the largest does; A necessary film envelo=
ps
all, and envelops the Soul for a proper time.
Now I am curious =
what
sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me =
than
my mast-hemmed Manhatta, My river and sunset, and my scallop-edged waves of
flood-tide; The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the
twilight, and =
the
belated lighter; Curious what Gods can exceed these that clasp me by the ha=
nd,
and with =
voices
I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I =
approach;
Curious what is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man
We understand, th=
en,
do we not? What I promised without mentioning it have you not accepted? What
the study could not teach--what the preaching could not accomplish, is =
accomplished,
is it not? What the push of reading could not start, is started by me
personally, is it not?
4.
Flow on river! fl=
ow
with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide! Frolic on, crested and
scallop-edged waves! Gorgeous clouds of the sunset, drench with your splend=
our
me, or the men =
and
women generations after me! Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of
passengers! Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta!-stand up, beautiful hills of
Brooklyn! Bully for you! you proud, friendly, free Manhattanese! Throb, baf=
fled
and curious brain! throw out questions and answers! Suspend here and
everywhere, eternal float of solution!
Blab, blush, lie,
steal, you or I or any one after us! Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the
house, or street, or public =
assembly!
Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest =
=
name!
Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress! Play=
the
old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes =
it!
Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
upon
you: Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet hast=
e =
with
the hasting current; Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large cir=
cles
high in the air; Receive the summer sky, you water! and faithfully hold it,
till all =
downcast
eyes have time to take it from you; Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the
shape of my head, or any one's =
head,
in the sun-lit water; Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down,
white-sailed schooners, =
sloops,
lighters! Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lowered at sunset; Burn
high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall; =
cast
red and yellow light over the tops of the houses; Appearances, now or
henceforth, indicate what you are; You necessary film, continue to envelop =
the
soul; About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aro=
mas;
Thrive, cities! bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient =
=
rivers!
Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual! Keep your pla=
ces,
objects than which none else is more lasting!
We descend upon y=
ou
and all things--we arrest you all; We realise the soul only by you, you
faithful solids and fluids; Through you colour, form, location, sublimity,
ideality; Through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and =
=
determinations
of ourselves.
You have waited, =
you
always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers! you =
novices!
We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward; Not=
you
any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us; We use y=
ou,
and do not cast you aside--we plant you permanently within us; We fathom you
not--we love you--there is perfection in you also; You furnish your parts
toward eternity; Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.
1.
Night on the
prairies. The supper is over--the fire on the ground burns low; The wearied
emigrants sleep, wrapped in their blankets; I walk by myself--I stand and l=
ook
at the stars, which I think now I never =
realised
before.
Now I absorb
immortality and peace, I admire death, and test propositions.
How plenteous! How
spiritual! How resumé! The same Old Man and Soul--the same old
aspirations, and the same content.
2.
I was thinking the
day most splendid, till I saw what the not day =
exhibited,
I was thinking this globe enough, till there sprang out so noiseless around=
=
me
myriads of other globes.
Now, while the gr=
eat
thoughts of space and eternity fill me, I will measure =
myself
by them: And now, touched with the lives of other globes, arrived as far al=
ong
as =
those
of the earth, Or waiting to arrive, or passed on farther than those of the
earth, I henceforth no more ignore them than I ignore my own life, Or the l=
ives
of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive.
3.
O I see now that =
life
cannot exhibit all to me-as the day cannot, I see that I am to wait for what
will be exhibited by death.
1.
Elemental drifts!=
O I
wish I could impress others as you and the waves have just been =
impressing
me.
As I ebbed with an
ebb of the ocean of life, As I wended the shores I know, As I walked where =
the
sea-ripples wash you, Paumanok, Where they rustle up, hoarse and sibilant, =
Where
the fierce old Mother endlessly cries for her castaways, I, musing, late in=
the
autumn day, gazing off southward, Alone, held by this eternal self of me, o=
ut
of the pride of which I have =
uttered
my poems, Was seized by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot, In t=
he
rim, the sediment, that stands for all the water and all the land of =
the
globe.
Fascinated, my ey=
es,
reverting from the south, dropped, to follow those =
slender
winrows, Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten, Scum,
scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide; Miles
walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me, Paumanok, there =
and
then, as I thought the old thought of likenesses. These you presented to me,
you fish-shaped Island, As I wended the shores I know, As I walked with that
eternal self of me, seeking types.
2.
As I wend to the
shores I know not, As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wrec=
ked,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me, As the ocean so
mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer, I too but signify, at the utm=
ost,
a little washed-up drift, A few sands and dead leaves to gather, Gather, and
merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
O baffled, baulke=
d,
bent to the very earth, Oppressed with myself that I have dared to open my
mouth, Aware now that, amid all the blab whose echoes recoil upon me, I have
not =
once
had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my insolent poems,=
the
real ME stands yet untouched, =
untold,
altogether unreached, Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory si=
gns
and bows, With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have writ=
ten,
Pointing in silence to all these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
Now I perceive I =
have
not understood anything--not a single object--and =
that
no man ever can.
I perceive Nature,
here in sight of the sea, is taking advantage of me, to =
dart
upon me, and sting me, Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all=
.
3.
You oceans both! I
close with you; These little shreds shall indeed stand for all.
You friable shore,
with trails of debris! You fish-shaped Island! I take what is underfoot; Wh=
at
is yours is mine, my father.
I too, Paumanok, I
too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been washed on =
your
shores; I too am but a trail of drift and debris, I too leave little wrecks
upon you, you fish-shaped Island.
I throw myself up=
on
your breast, my father, I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, I hold
you so firm till you answer me something.
Kiss me, my fathe=
r, Touch
me with your lips, as I touch those I love, Breathe to me, while I hold you
close, the secret of the wondrous murmuring I envy.
4.
Ebb, ocean of lif=
e,
(the flow will return.) Cease not your moaning, you fierce old Mother, Endl=
essly
cry for your castaways--but fear not, deny not me, Rustle not up so hoarse =
and
angry against my feet, as I touch you, or =
gather
from you.
I mean tenderly by
you, I gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking down where we lead,=
and
following me and mine.
Me and mine! We,
loose winrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, (See! from =
my
dead lips the ooze exuding at last! See--the prismatic colours, glistening =
and
rolling!) Tufts of straw, sands, fragments, Buoyed hither from many moods, =
one
contradicting another, From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swe=
ll; Musing,
pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil; Up just as much=
out
of fathomless workings fermented and thrown; A limp blossom or two, torn, j=
ust
as much over waves floating, drifted at =
random;
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature; Just as much, whence we c=
ome,
that blare of the cloud-trumpets; We, capricious, brought hither, we know n=
ot
whence, spread out before you, You, up there, walking or sitting, Whoever y=
ou
are--we too lie in drifts at your feet.
WONDERS.
1.
Who learns my les=
son
complete? Boss, journeyman, apprentice--churchman and atheist, The stupid a=
nd
the wise thinker--parents and offspring--merchant, clerk, =
porter,
and customer, Editor, author, artist; and schoolboy--Draw nigh and commence=
; It
is no lesson--it lets down the bars to a good lesson, And that to another, =
and
every one to another still.
2.
The great laws ta=
ke
and effuse without argument; I am of the same style, for I am their friend,=
I
love them quits and quits--I do not halt and make salaams.
I lie abstracted,=
and
hear beautiful tales of things, and the reasons of =
things;
They are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen. I cannot say to any person =
what
I hear--I cannot say it to myself--it is =
very
wonderful.
It is no small
matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in =
its
orbit for ever and ever, without one jolt, or the untruth of a =
single
second; I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, =
nor
ten =
billions
of years, Nor planned and built one thing after another, as an architect pl=
ans
and =
builds
a house. I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman, Nor th=
at
seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that years will
ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.
3.
Is it wonderful t=
hat
I should be immortal? as every one is immortal; I know it is wonderful--but=
my
eyesight is equally wonderful, and how I was =
conceived
in my mother's womb is equally wonderful; And passed from a babe, in the cr=
eeping
trance of a couple of summers and =
winters,
to articulate and walk--All this is equally wonderful.
And that my Soul
embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without =
ever
seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each other, is =
every
bit as wonderful.
And that I can th=
ink
such thoughts as these is just as wonderful; And that I can remind you, and=
you
think them and know them to be true, is =
just
as wonderful. And that the moon spins round the earth, and on with the eart=
h,
is equally =
wonderful;
And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally =
wonderful.
1.
What shall I give?
and which are my miracles?
2.
Realism is mine--=
my
miracles--Take freely, Take without end--I offer them to you wherever your =
feet
can carry you or =
your
eyes reach.
3.
Why! who makes mu=
ch
of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk=
the
streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the =
sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water, Or
stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love--or slee=
p in
the bed at night with any =
one
I love, Or sit at the table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers
opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of=
a
summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds--or the
wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown--o=
r of
stars shining so quiet and =
bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whethe=
r I
go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, =
boatmen,
farmers, Or among the savans--or to the soirée--or to the opera. Or
stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold childre=
n at
their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect=
old
woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my own e=
yes
and figure in the glass; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me mirac=
les,
The whole referring--yet each distinct and in its place.
4.
To me, every hour=
of
the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of space is a miracle, Every sq=
uare
yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot =
of
the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs,
organs, of men and women, and all =
that
concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a
continual miracle; The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the
waves--the ships, with =
men
in them, What stranger miracles are there?
Of the visages of things--And of pi=
ercing
through to the accepted hells =
beneath.
Of ugliness--To me there is just as much in it as there is in =
beauty--And
now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me. Of detected persons--=
To
me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse =
than
undetected persons--and are not in any respect worse than I am =
myself.
Of criminals--To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal--and any =
=
reputable
person is also--and the President is also.
I sit and look out upon all the sor=
rows
of the world, and upon all =
oppression
and shame; I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
themselves, =
remorseful
after deeds done; I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children,
dying, neglected, =
gaunt,
desperate; I see the wife misused by her husband--I see the treacherous sed=
ucer
of =
young
women; I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
hid-- =
I
see these sights on the earth; I see the workings of battle, pestilence, ty=
ranny--I
see martyrs and =
prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea--I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be =
=
killed,
to preserve the lives of the rest; I observe the slights and degradations c=
ast
by arrogant persons upon =
labourers,
the poor, and upon negroes, and the like; All these--all the meanness and a=
gony
without end, I, sitting, look out =
upon;
See, hear, and am silent.
MUSIC.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
I heard you, solemn-sweet pipes of =
the
organ, as last Sunday morn I passed =
the
church; Winds of autumn!--as I walked the woods at dusk, I heard your =
long-stretched
sighs, up above, so mournful; I heard the perfect Italian tenor, singing at=
the
opera--I heard the =
soprano
in the midst of the quartette singing. --Heart of my love! you too I heard,
murmuring low, through one of the =
wrists
around my head; Heard the pulse of you, when all was still, ringing little
bells last night =
under
my ear.
O me! O life!--of the questions of =
these
recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the
foolish; Of myself for ever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than =
I,
and =
who
more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--=
of
the struggle ever renewed; Of =
the
poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around =
me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined; T=
he
question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?
ANSWER.=
That you are here--that life exists= , and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.<= o:p>
As I lay with my head in your lap,
camerado, The confession I made I resume--what I said to you and the open a=
ir I
=
resume.
I know I am restless, and make others so; I know my words are weapons, full=
of
danger, full of death; (Indeed I am myself the real soldier; It is not he,
there, with his bayonet, and not the red-striped =
artilleryman;)
For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them;=
I
am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have been
1.
Splendour of ended
day, floating and filling me! Hour prophetic--hour resuming the past: Infla=
ting
my throat--you, divine Average! You, Earth and Life, till the last ray glea=
ms,
I sing.
2.
Open mouth of my
soul, uttering gladness, Eyes of my soul, seeing perfection, Natural life of
me, faithfully praising things; Corroborating for ever the triumph of thing=
s.
3.
Illustrious every
one! Illustrious what we name space--sphere of unnumbered spirits; Illustri=
ous
the mystery of motion, in all beings, even the tiniest insect; Illustrious =
the
attribute of speech--the senses--the body; Illustrious the passing light!
Illustrious the pale reflection on the new =
moon
in the western sky! Illustrious whatever I see, or hear, or touch, to the l=
ast.
Good in all, In t=
he
satisfaction and aplomb of animals, In the annual return of the seasons, In=
the
hilarity of youth, In the strength and flush of manhood, In the grandeur and
exquisiteness of old age, In the superb vistas of Death.
Wonderful to depa=
rt; Wonderful
to be here! The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood, To breathe =
the
air, how delicious! To speak! to walk! to seize something by the hand! To
prepare for sleep, for bed--to look on my rose-coloured flesh, To be consci=
ous
of my body, so happy, so large, To be this incredible God I am, To have gone
forth among other Gods--those men and women I love.
Wonderful how I
celebrate you and myself! How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles aro=
und!
How the clouds pass silently overhead!
How the earth dar=
ts
on and on! and how the sun, moon, stars, dart on and =
on!
How the water sports and sings! (Surely it is alive!) How the trees rise and
stand up--with strong trunks--with branches and =
leaves!
Surely there is something more in each of the trees--some living soul.
O amazement of
things! even the least particle! O spirituality of things! O strain musical,
flowing through ages and continents--now reaching me and =
America!
I take your strong chords--I intersperse them, and cheerfully pass them
I too carol the s=
un,
ushered, or at noon, or, as now, setting, I too throb to the brain and beau=
ty
of the earth, and of all the growths of =
the
earth, I too have felt the resistless call of myself.
As I sailed down =
the
Mississippi, As I wandered over the prairies, As I have lived--As I have lo=
oked
through my windows, my eyes, As I went forth in the morning--As I beheld the
light breaking in the east; As I bathed on the beach of the Eastern Sea, and
again on the beach of the =
Western
Sea; As I roamed the streets of inland Chicago-whatever streets I have roam=
ed; Wherever
I have been, I have charged myself with contentment and triumph.
I sing the
Equalities; I sing the endless finales of things; I say Nature continues--G=
lory
continues; I praise with electric voice: For I do not see one imperfection =
in
the universe; And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the
universe.
O setting sun! th=
ough
the time has come, I still warble under you unmitigated adoration.
O Magnet South! O glistening, perfu=
med
South! my South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love! good and ev=
il!
O all dear to =
me!
O dear to me my birth-things--all moving things, and the trees where I was =
=
born,[1]
the grains, plants, rivers; Dear to me my own slow, sluggish rivers, where =
they
flow distant over flats =
of
silvery sands or through swamps; Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the
Altamahaw, the Pedee, the =
Tombigbee,
the Santee, the Coosa, and the Sabine-- O pensive, far away wandering, I re=
turn
with my soul to haunt their banks =
again.
Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes--I float on Okeechobee--I =
dart
my vision inland; O the cotton plant! the growing fields of rice, sugar, he=
mp! The
cactus, guarded with thorns--the laurel-tree, with large white flowers; The
range afar--the richness and barrenness--the old woods charged with =
mistletoe
and trailing moss, The piney odour and the gloom--the awful natural stillne=
ss,
Here in these =
dense
swamps the freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive slave =
has
his concealed hut; O the strange fascination of these half-known,
half-impassable swamps, =
infested
by reptiles, resounding with the bellow of the alligator, =
the
sad noises of the night-owl and the wild-cat, and the whirr of =
the
rattlesnake; The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the
forenoon--singing =
through
the moon-lit night, The humming-bird, the wild-turkey, the raccoon, the
opossum; A Tennessee corn-field--the tall, graceful, long-leaved corn--slen=
der,
=
flapping,
bright green, with tassels--with beautiful ears, each =
well-sheathed
in its husk; An Arkansas prairie--a sleeping lake, or still bayou. O my hea=
rt!
O tender and fierce pangs--I can stand them not--I will depart! O to be a
Virginian, where I grew up! O to be a Carolinian! O longings irrepressible!=
O I
will go back to old Tennessee, and never =
wander
more!
[Footnote 1: These
expressions cannot be understood in a literal sense, for Whitman was born, =
not
in the South, but in the State of New York. The precise sense to be attache=
d to
them may be open to some difference of opinion.]
Of the terrible doubt of appearance=
s, Of
the uncertainty after all--that we may be deluded, That maybe reliance and =
hope
are but speculations after all, That maybe identity beyond the grave is a
beautiful fable only, Maybe the things I perceive--the animals, plants, men,
hills, shining and =
flowing
waters, The skies of day and night--colours, densities, forms--Maybe these =
are
(as =
doubtless
they are) only apparitions, and the real something has =
yet
to be known; (How often they dart out of themselves, as if to confound me a=
nd
mock me! How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them=
!) Maybe
seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as =
from
my present point of view--And might prove (as of course they =
would)
naught of what they appear, or naught anyhow, from entirely =
changed
points of view; --To me, these, and the like of these, are curiously answer=
ed
by my lovers, =
my
dear friends. When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while hol=
ding
me by the =
hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
not,
surround us and pervade us, Then I am charged with untold and untellable
wisdom--I am silent--I require =
nothing
further, I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity
beyond the =
grave;
But I walk or sit indifferent--I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has
completely satisfied me.
Recorders ages hence! Come, I will =
take
you down underneath this impassive exterior--I will tell =
you
what to say of me; Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the
tenderest lover, The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend, his
lover, was =
fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within=
=
him--and
freely poured it forth, Who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his de=
ar
friends, his lovers, Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleeple=
ss
and dissatisfied =
at
night, Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he loved might
secretly =
be
indifferent to him, Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in
woods, on hills, he =
and
another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other =
men,
Who oft, as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arm the shoulder of <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
his
friend--while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.
When I heard at the close of the da=
y how
my name had been received with =
plaudits
in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that =
followed;
And else, when I caroused, or when my plans were accomplished, still I was =
=
not
happy. But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refreshed, =
singing,
inhaling the ripe breath of autumn, When I saw the full moon in the west gr=
ow
pale and disappear in the morning =
light,
When I wandered alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with =
=
the
cool waters, and saw the sunrise, And when I thought how my dear friend, my
lover, was on his way coming, O =
then
I was happy; O then each breath tasted sweeter--and all that day my food no=
urished
me =
more--and
the beautiful day passed well, And the next came with equal joy--and with t=
he
next, at evening, came my =
friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly =
continually
up the shores, I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as direc=
ted
to me, =
whispering,
to congratulate me; For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the sa=
me
cover in the cool =
night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,=
And
his arm lay lightly around my breast--and that night I was happy.
A DREAM.
Of him I love day and night, I drea=
med I
heard he was dead; And I dreamed I went where they had buried him I love--b=
ut
he was not in =
that
place; And I dreamed I wandered, searching among burial-places, to find him=
; And
I found that every place was a burial-place; The houses full of life were
equally full of death, (this house is now;) The streets, the shipping, the
places of amusement, the Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, the Mannahatta, wer=
e as
full of the dead as of the living, And fuller, O vastly fuller, of the dead
than of the living. --And what I dreamed I will henceforth tell to every pe=
rson
and age, And I stand henceforth bound to what I dreamed; And now I am willi=
ng
to disregard burial-places, and dispense with them; And if the memorials of=
the
dead were put up indifferently everywhere, even =
in
the room where I eat or sleep, I should be satisfied; And if the corpse of =
any
one I love, or if my own corpse, be duly rendered =
to
powder, and poured in the sea, I shall be satisfied; Or if it be distribute=
d to
the winds, I shall be satisfied.
What think you I take my pen in han=
d to
record? The battle-ship, perfect-modelled, majestic, that I saw pass the of=
fing
to- =
day
under full sail? The splendours of the past day? Or the splendour of the ni=
ght
that envelops =
me?
Or the vaunted glory and growth of the great city spread around me?--No; Bu=
t I
record of two simple men I saw to-day, on the pier, in the midst of =
the
crowd, parting the parting of dear friends; The one to remain hung on the
other's neck, and passionately kissed him, While the one to depart tightly
pressed the one to remain in his arms.
Passing stranger! you do not know h=
ow
longingly I look upon you; You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeki=
ng
(it comes to me, as of a =
dream).
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you. All is recalled as we
flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, =
matured;
You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me; I ate with you,=
and
slept with you--your body has become not yours only, =
nor
left my body mine only; You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh,=
as
we pass--you take of =
my
beard, breast, hands in return; I am not to speak to you--I am to think of =
you
when I sit alone, or wake at =
night
alone; I am to wait--I do not doubt I am to meet you again; I am to see to =
it
that I do not lose you.
This moment yearning and thoughtful,
sitting alone, It seems to me there are other men in other lands, yearning =
and
thoughtful; It seems to me I can look over and behold them in Prussia, Ital=
y,
France, Spain--or far, far away, in China, =
or in
Russia or India--talking =
other
dialects; And it seems to me, if I could know those men, I should become
attached to =
them,
as I do to men in my own lands. O I know we should be brethren and lovers; I
know I should be happy with them.
When I peruse the
conquered fame of heroes, and the victories of mighty =
generals,
I do not envy the generals, Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the ri=
ch
in his great house.
But when I read of
the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them; How through life, through
dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long, Through youth, and through middle
and old age, how unfaltering, how =
affectionate
and faithful they were, Then I am pensive--I hastily put down the book, and
walk away, filled with the bitterest envy.
I dreamed in a dream I saw a city
invincible to the attacks of the whole of =
the
rest of the earth; I dreamed that it was the new City of Friends; Nothing w=
as
greater there than the quality of robust love--it led the rest; It was seen
every hour in the actions of the men of that city, And in all their looks a=
nd
words.
1.
Out of the rolling
ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me, Whispering, I love you; before =
long
I die: I have travelled a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you: Fo=
r I
could not die till I once looked on you, For I feared I might afterward lose
you.
2.
Now we have met, =
we
have looked, we are safe; Return in peace to the ocean, my love; I too am p=
art
of that ocean, my love--we are not so much separated; Behold the great
rondure--the cohesion of all, how perfect! But as for me, for you, the
irresistible sea is to separate us, As for an hour carrying us diverse--yet
cannot carry us diverse for ever; Be not impatient--a little space--know yo=
u, I
salute the air, the ocean, =
and
the land, Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.
Among the men and women, the multit=
ude, I
perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs, Acknowledging none
else--not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any =
nearer
than I am; Some are baffled--But that one is not--that one knows me.
Ah, lover and per=
fect
equal! I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections; An=
d I,
when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you.
PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S FUNER=
AL
HYMN.
1.
When lilacs last = in the door-yard bloomed, And the great star[1] early drooped in the western s= ky in the night, I mourned,...and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.<= o:p>
O ever-returning
spring! trinity sure to me you bring; Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping
star in the west, And thought of him I love.
2.
O powerful, weste=
rn,
fallen star! O shades of night! O moody, tearful night! O great star
disappeared! O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold =
me
powerless! O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not f=
ree
my soul!
3.
In the door-yard
fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings, Stands the lilac
bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich =
green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising delicate, with the perfume strong I
4.
In the swamp, in
secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary, the thr=
ush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himsel=
f a
song:
Song of the bleed=
ing
throat! Death's outlet song of life--for well, dear brother, I know, If thou
wast not gifted to sing, thou wouldst surely die.
5.
Over the breast of
the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes, and through old woods, where
lately the violets peeped from the =
ground,
spotting the greydebris; Amid the grass in the fields each side of the
lanes--passing the endless =
grass;
Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the =
dark-brown
fields uprising; Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the
orchards; Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and =
day
journeys a coffin.
6.
Coffin that passes
through lanes and streets, Through day and night, with the great cloud
darkening the land, With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities dr=
aped
in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women
standing, With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night=
, With
the countless torches lit--with the silent sea of faces, =
and
the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the som=
bre
faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong
and =
solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, poured around the coffin, The
dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--Where amid these you =
journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang; Here! coffin that slowly
passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.
7.
Nor for you, for =
one,
alone; Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring: For fresh as the
morning--thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and =
sacred
Death.
All over bouquets=
of
roses, O Death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies; But mostly and
now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious, I break, I break the sprigs f=
rom
the bushes! With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffi=
ns
all of you, O Death.
8.
O western orb,
sailing the heaven! Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we
walked, As we walked up and down in the dark blue so mystic, As we walked in
silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell, =
as
you bent to me night after night, As you drooped from the sky low down, as =
if
to my side, while the other =
stars
all looked on; As we wandered together the solemn night, for something, I k=
now
not what, =
kept
me from sleep; As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere=
you
went, how =
full
you were of woe; As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cool
transparent =
night,
As I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb, Conc=
luded,
dropped in the night, and was gone.
9.
Sing on, there in=
the
swamp! O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes--I hear your call; I
hear--I come presently--I understand you; But a moment I linger--for the
lustrous star has detained me; The star, my comrade departing, holds and
detains me.
10.
O how shall I war=
ble
myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the
large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be for the grave =
of
him I love?
Sea-winds, blown =
from
east and west, Blown from the Eastern Sea, and blown from the Western Sea, =
till
there on =
the
prairies meeting: These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, I perf=
ume
the grave of him I love.
11.
O what shall I ha=
ng
on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the wal=
ls, To
adorn the burial-house of him I love?
Pictures of growi=
ng
spring, and farms, and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the
grey smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous,
indolent sinking sun, =
burning,
expanding the air; With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale gr=
een
leaves of the =
trees
prolific; In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, =
with
a wind-dapple here and there; With ranging hills on the banks, with many a =
line
against the sky, and =
shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And =
all
the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward =
returning.
12.
Lo! body and soul!
this land! Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying ti=
des,
and =
the
ships; The varied and ample land--the South and the North in the light--Ohi=
o's
shores, and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies, covered
with grass and corn.
Lo! the most
excellent sun, so calm and haughty; The violet and purple morn, with just-f=
elt
breezes; The gentle, soft-born, measureless light; The miracle, spreading,
bathing all--the fulfilled noon; The coming eve, delicious--the welcome nig=
ht,
and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
13.
Sing on! sing on,=
you
grey-brown bird! Sing from the swamps, the recesses--pour your chant from t=
he
bushes; Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on, dearest
brother--warble your reedy song, Loud human song, with voice of uttermost w=
oe.
O liquid, and fre=
e,
and tender! O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer! You only I hear=
,...
yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;) Yet the lilac, with mastering
odour, holds me.
14.
Now while I sat in
the day, and looked forth, In the close of the day, with its light, and the
fields of spring, and the =
farmer
preparing his crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its
lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, after the perturbed winds=
and
the storms; Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and t=
he
voices of =
children
and women, The many-moving sea-tides,--and I saw the ships how they sailed,=
And
the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with =
labour,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals=
and
minutiae of daily usages; And the streets, how their throbbings throbbed, a=
nd
the cities =
pent--lo!
then and there, Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me wi=
th
the rest, Appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail; And I knew Dea=
th,
its thought, and the sacred knowledge of Death.
15.
And the Thought of
Death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle, as with
companions, and as holding the hands of =
companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not, Down to the sho=
res
of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy
cedars, and ghostly pines so still.
And the singer so=
shy
to the rest received me; The grey-brown bird I know received us Comrades th=
ree;
And he sang what seemed the song of Death, and a verse for him I love.
From deep secluded
recesses, From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still, Came the
singing of the bird.
And the charm of =
the
singing rapt me, As I held, as if by their hands, my Comrades in the night;=
And
the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
16.
Come, lovely and
soothing Death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In t=
he
day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate Death.
Praised be the
fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curiou=
s; And
for love, sweet love--But praise! O praise and praise, For the sure-enwindi=
ng
arms of cool-enfolding Death.
Dark Mother, alwa=
ys
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.
Approach,
encompassing Death-strong deliveress! When it is so--when thou hast taken t=
hem,
I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved=
in
the flood of thy bliss, O Death.
From me to thee g=
lad
serenades, Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee--adornments and feastin=
gs
for =
thee;
And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,=
And
life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.
The night, in
silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave,=
whose
voice I know; And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled Death, A=
nd
the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
Over the tree-top=
s I
float thee a song! Over the rising and sinking waves--over the myriad field=
s,
and the prairies =
wide;
Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways, I float
this carol with joy, with joy, to thee, O Death!
17.
To the tally of my
soul Loud and strong kept up the grey-brown bird, With pure, deliberate not=
es,
spreading, filling the night.
Loud in the pines=
and
cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume, And I with=
my
Comrades there in the night.
While my sight th=
at
was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions.
18.
I saw the vision of armies; And I s=
aw, as
in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags; Borne through the smoke of t=
he
battles, and pierced with missiles, I saw =
them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody; And at l=
ast
but a few shreds of the flags left on the staffs, (and all in =
silence,)
And the staffs all splintered and broken.
I saw battle-corp=
ses,
myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men--I saw them; I saw the
debris and debris of all dead soldiers. But I saw they were not as was thou=
ght;
They themselves were fully at rest--they suffered not; The living remained =
and
suffered--the mother suffered, And the wife and the child, and the musing
comrade suffered, And the armies that remained suffered.
19.
Passing the visio=
ns,
passing the night; Passing, unloosing the hold of my Comrades' hands; Passi=
ng
the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul; Victorious s=
ong,
Death's outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song; As low and wailing, y=
et
clear, the notes, rising and falling, flooding the =
night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting =
=
with
joy. Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powe=
rful
psalm in the night, I heard from recesses.
20.
Must I leave thee,
lilac with heart-shaped leaves? Must I leave thee there in the door-yard,
blooming, returning with spring?
Must I pass from =
my
song for thee-- From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, commun=
ing
with thee, O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night?
21.
Yet each I keep, =
and
all; The song, the wondrous chant of the grey-brown bird, And the tallying
chant, the echo aroused in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star, wi=
th
the countenance full of woe; With the lilac tali, and its blossoms of maste=
ring
odour; Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep--for=
the
=
dead
I loved so well; For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands--and
this for his =
dear
sake; Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul, With the
holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird, There in the fragrant
pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.
[Footnote 1:
"The evening star, which, as many may remember night after night, in t=
he
early part of that eventful spring, hung low in the west with unusual and
tender brightness."--JOHN BURROUGHS.]
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! (F=
OR
THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.)
1.
O Captain! my
Captain! our fearful trip is done! The ship has weathered every wrack, the
prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all
exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. =
But,
O heart! heart! heart! =
Leave
you not the little spot =
Where
on the deck my Captain lies, =
Fallen
cold and dead.
2.
O Captain! my
Captain! rise up and hear the bells! Rise up! for you the flag is flung, for
you the bugle trills: For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths; for you the sh=
ores
a-crowding: For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning.=
=
O Captain! dear father! =
This
arm I push beneath you. =
It
is some dream that on the deck =
You've
fallen cold and dead!
3.
My Captain does n=
ot
answer, his lips are pale and still: My father does not feel my arm, he has=
no
pulse nor will. But the ship, the ship is anchored safe, its voyage closed =
and
done: From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won! =
Exult,
O shores! and ring, O bells! =
But
I, with silent tread, =
Walk
the spot my Captain lies, =
Fallen
cold and dead.
1.
Come, my tan-faced children, Follo=
w well
in order, get your weapons ready; Have you your pistols? have you your
sharp-edged axes? Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
2.
For we cannot tarry here, We must =
march,
my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful sinewy race=
s,
all the rest on us depend. Pione=
ers! 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, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
4.
Have the elder races halted? Do th=
ey
droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the seas? We take up=
the
task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
5.
All the past we leave behind; We d=
ebouch
upon a newer, mightier world, varied world; Fresh and strong the world we
seize, world of labour and the march, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
6.
We detachments steady throwing, Do=
wn the
edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep, Conquering, holding, dar=
ing,
venturing, as we go, the unknown ways, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
7.
We primeval forests felling, We the
rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines within; We the surf=
ace
broad surveying, and the virgin soil upheaving, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
8.
Colorado men are we, From the peak=
s gigantic,
from the great sierras and the high plateaus, From the mine and from the gu=
lly,
from the hunting trail we come, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
9.
From Nebraska, from Arkansas, Cent=
ral
inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood interveined; =
All
the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the Northern, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
10.
O resistless, restless race! O bel=
oved
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, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers;
11.
Raise the mighty mother mistress, =
Waving
high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress, (bend your heads
all,) Raise the fanged and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weaponed
mistress, Pioneers! O pioneers!
12.
See, my children, resolute childre=
n, By
those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter, Ages back in gho=
stly
millions, frowning there behind us urging, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
13.
On and on, the compact ranks, With
accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly filled, Through
the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
14.
&n=
bsp;
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 fil=
led,
Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
15.
All the pulses of the world, Falli=
ng in,
they beat for us, with the Western movement beat; Holding single or togethe=
r,
steady moving, to the front, all for us, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
16.
Life's involved and varied pageant=
s, All
the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work, All the seamen and the
landsmen, all the masters with their slaves, Pione=
ers, 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, Pione=
ers! 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, Pione=
ers! 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, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
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, Pione=
ers! 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, Pione=
ers! 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, Pione=
ers! 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 enjoyment, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
24.
Do the feasters gluttonous feast? =
Do the
corpulent sleepers sleep? have they locked and bolted doors? Still be ours =
the
diet hard, and the blanket on the ground, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
25.
Has the night descended? Was the r=
oad of
late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on our way? Yet a passing
hour I yield you in your tracks to pause oblivious, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
26.
Till with sound of trumpet, Far, f=
ar off
the daybreak call--hark! how loud and clear I hear it wind; Swift! to the h=
ead
of the army!--swift! spring to your places, Pione=
ers! O
pioneers!
TO THE SAYERS OF WORDS.=
span>
1.
Earth, round,
rolling, compact--suns, moons, animals--all these are words =
to
be said; Watery, vegetable, sauroid advances--beings, premonitions, lisping=
s of
=
the
future, Behold! these are vast words to be said.
Were you thinking
that those were the words--those upright lines? those =
curves,
angles, dots? No, those are not the words--the substantial words are in the
ground and =
sea,
They are in the air--they are in you.
Were you thinking
that those were the words--those delicious sounds out of =
your
friends' mouths? No; the real words are more delicious than they.
Human bodies are
words, myriads of words; In the best poems reappears the body, man's or
woman's, well-shaped, =
natural,
gay; Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame=
.
Air, soil, water,
fire--these are words; I myself am a word with them--my qualities
interpenetrate =
with
theirs--my name is nothing to them; Though it were told in the three thousa=
nd
languages, what would air, soil, water, fire, know of my name?
A healthy presenc=
e, a
friendly or commanding gesture, are words, sayings, =
meanings;
The charms that go with the mere looks of some men and women are sayings =
and
meanings also.
2.
The workmanship of
souls is by the inaudible words of the earth; The great masters know the
earth's words, and use them more than the =
audible
words.
Amelioration is o=
ne
of the earth's words; The earth neither lags nor hastens; It has all
attributes, growths, effects, latent in itself from the jump; It is not half
beautiful only--defects and excrescences show just as much =
as
perfections show.
The earth does not
withhold--it is generous enough; The truths of the earth continually wait, =
they
are not so concealed either; They are calm, subtle, untransmissible by prin=
t; They
are imbued through all things, conveying themselves willingly, Conveying a
sentiment and invitation of the earth. I utter and utter: I speak not; yet,=
if
you hear me not, of what avail am I to you? To bear--to better; lacking the=
se,
of what avail am I?
Accouche! Accouch= ez! Will you rot your own fruit in yourself there? Will you squat and stifle there?<= o:p>
The earth does not
argue, Is not pathetic, has no arrangements, Does not scream, haste, persua=
de,
threaten, promise, Makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures, C=
loses
nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out; Of all the powers, objects, state=
s,
it notifies, shuts none out.
The earth does not
exhibit itself, nor refuse to exhibit itself--possesses =
still
underneath; Underneath the ostensible sounds, the august chorus of heroes, =
the
wail of =
slaves,
Persuasions of lovers, curses, gasps of the dying, laughter of young =
people,
accents of bargainers, Underneath these, possessing the words that never fa=
il.
To her children, =
the
words of the eloquent dumb great Mother never fail; The true words do not f=
ail,
for motion does not fail, and reflection does =
not
fail; Also the day and night do not fail, and the voyage we pursue does not
fail.
3.
Of the interminab=
le
sisters, Of the ceaseless cotillons of sisters, Of the centripetal and
centrifugal sisters, the elder and younger sisters, The beautiful sister we
know dances on with the rest.
With her ample ba=
ck
towards every beholder, With the fascinations of youth, and the equal
fascinations of age, Sits she whom I too love like the rest--sits undisturb=
ed, Holding
up in her hand what has the character of a mirror, while her eyes =
glance
back from it, Glance as she sits, inviting none, denying none, Holding a mi=
rror
day and night tirelessly before her own face.
Seen at hand, or =
seen
at a distance, Duly the twenty-four appear in public every day, Duly approa=
ch
and pass with their companions, or a companion, Looking from no countenance=
s of
their own, but from the countenances of =
those
who are with them, From the countenances of children or women, or the manly
countenance, From the open countenances of animals, or from inanimate thing=
s, From
the landscape or waters, or from the exquisite apparition of the sky, From =
our
countenances, mine and yours, faithfully returning them, Every day in public
appearing without fail, but never twice with the same =
companions.
Embracing man,
embracing all, proceed the three hundred and sixty-five resistlessly round=
the
sun; Embracing all, soothing, supporting, follow close three hundred and si=
xty-
=
five
offsets of the first, sure and necessary as they.
Tumbling on stead=
ily,
nothing dreading, Sunshine, storm, cold, heat, for ever withstanding, passi=
ng,
carrying,
The Soul's
realisation and determination still inheriting; The fluid vacuum around and
ahead still entering and dividing, No baulk retarding, no anchor anchoring,=
on
no rock striking, Swift, glad, content, unbereaved, nothing losing, Of all =
able
and ready at any time to give strict account, The divine ship sails the div=
ine
sea.
4.
Whoever you are!
motion and reflection are especially for you; The divine ship sails the div=
ine
sea for you.
Whoever you are! =
you
are he or she for whom the earth is solid and liquid, You are he or she for
whom the sun and moon hang in the sky; For none more than you are the prese=
nt
and the past, For none more than you is immortality.
Each man to himse=
lf,
and each woman to herself, such as the word of the =
past
and present, and the word of immortality; No one can acquire for another--n=
ot
one! Not one can grow for another--not one!
The song is to the
singer, and comes back most to him; The teaching is to the teacher, and com=
es
back most to him; The murder is to the murderer, and comes back most to him=
;
The theft is to t=
he
thief, and comes back most to him; The love is to the lover, and conies back
most to him; The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him--it cannot
fail; The oration is to the orator, the acting is to the actor and actress,=
not
=
to
the audience; And no man understands any greatness or goodness but his own,=
or
the =
indication
of his own.
5.
I swear the earth
shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be =
complete!
I swear the earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains =
=
broken
and jagged!
I swear there is =
no
greatness or power that does not emulate those of the =
earth!
I swear there can be no theory of any account, unless it corroborate the =
theory
of the earth! No politics, art, religion, behaviour, or what not, is of
account, unless =
it
compare with the amplitude of the earth, Unless it face the exactness,
vitality, impartiality, rectitude, of the =
earth.
I swear I begin to
see love with sweeter spasms than that which responds =
love!
It is that which contains itself--which never invites, and never refuses.
I swear I begin to
see little or nothing in audible words! I swear I think all merges toward t=
he
presentation of the unspoken meanings =
of
the earth; Toward him who sings the songs of the Body, and of the truths of=
the
earth; Toward him who makes the dictionaries of words that print cannot tou=
ch.
I swear I see wha=
t is
better than to tell the best; It is always to leave the best untold.
When I undertake =
to
tell the best, I find I cannot, My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My
breath will not be obedient to its organs, I become a dumb man.
The best of the e=
arth
cannot be told anyhow--all or any is best; It is not what you anticipated--=
it
is cheaper, easier, nearer; Things are not dismissed from the places they h=
eld
before; The earth is just as positive and direct as it was before; Facts,
religions, improvements, politics, trades, are as real as before; But the S=
oul
is also real,--it too is positive and direct; No reasoning, no proof has
established it, Undeniable growth has established it.
6.
This is a poem for
the sayers of words--these are hints of meanings, These are they that echo =
the
tones of souls, and the phrases of souls; If they did not echo the phrases =
of
souls, what were they then? If they had not reference to you in especial, w=
hat
were they then? I swear I will never henceforth have to do with the faith t=
hat
tells the =
best!
I will have to do only with that faith that leaves the best untold.
7.
Say on, sayers! D=
elve!
mould! pile the words of the earth! Work on--it is materials you bring, not
breaths; Work on, age after age! nothing is to be lost! It may have to wait
long, but it will certainly come in use; When the materials are all prepare=
d,
the architects shall appear.
I swear to you the
architects shall appear without fail! I announce them =
and
lead them; I swear to you they will understand you and justify you; I swear=
to
you the greatest among them shall be he who best knows you, and =
encloses
all, and is faithful to all; I swear to you, he and the rest shall not forg=
et
you--they shall perceive =
that
you are not an iota less than they; I swear to you, you shall be glorified =
in
them.
VOICES.=
1.
Now I make a leaf=
of
Voices--for I have found nothing mightier than they =
are,
And I have found that no word spoken but is beautiful in its place.
2.
O what is it in me
that makes me tremble so at voices? Surely, whoever speaks to me in the rig=
ht
voice, him or her I shall follow, As the water follows the moon, silently, =
with
fluid steps anywhere around =
the
globe.
All waits for the
right voices; Where is the practised and perfect organ? Where is the develo=
ped
Soul? For I see every word uttered thence has deeper, sweeter, new sounds, =
=
impossible
on less terms.
I see brains and =
lips
closed--tympans and temples unstruck, Until that comes which has the qualit=
y to
strike and to unclose, Until that comes which has the quality to bring forth
what lies slumbering, =
for
ever ready, in all words.
Whoever you are, I fear you are wal=
king
the walks of dreams, I fear those supposed realities are to melt from under
your feet and hands; Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade,
manners, troubles, =
follies,
costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true Soul and Body appear be=
fore
me, They stand forth out of affairs-out of commerce, shops, law, science, w=
ork,
=
farms,
clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, =
eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.
Whoever you are, =
now
I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; I whisper with my lips close=
to
your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.=
Oh! I have been
dilatory and dumb; I should have made my way straight to you long ago; I sh=
ould
have blabbed nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but =
you.
I will leave all,=
and
come and make the hymns of you; None have understood you, but I understand =
you;
None have done justice to you--you have not done justice to yourself; None =
but
have found you imperfect--I only find no imperfection in you; None but would
subordinate you--I only am he who will never consent to =
subordinate
you; I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond
what =
waits
intrinsically in yourself.
Painters have pai=
nted
their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all, From the head of the
centre figure spreading a nimbus of =
gold-coloured
light; But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of
gold- =
coloured
light; From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman, it streams,
O I could sing su=
ch
grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are--you have
slumbered upon yourself all your =
life;
Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time; What you have d=
one
returns already in mockeries; Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do n=
ot
return in mockeries, what =
is
their return?
The mockeries are=
not
you; Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk; I pursue you where n=
one
else has pursued you; Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night,
the accustomed =
routine,
if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they =
do
not conceal you from me; The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure
complexion, if these baulk =
others,
they do not baulk me. The pert apparel, the deformed attitude, drunkenness,
greed, premature =
death,
all these I part aside.
There is no endow=
ment
in man or woman that is not tallied in you; There is no virtue, no beauty, =
in
man or woman, but as good is in you; No pluck, no endurance in others, but =
as
good is in you; No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits=
for
you. As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully=
to =
you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the =
songs
of the glory of you.
Whoever you are!
claim your own at any hazard! These shows of the east and west are tame
compared to you; These immense meadows--these interminable rivers--you are
immense and =
interminable
as they; These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of appar=
ent =
dissolution--you
are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in yo=
ur
own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, =
dissolution.
The hopples fall =
from
your ankles--you find an unfailing sufficiency; Old or young, male or femal=
e,
rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you =
are
promulgates itself; Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provi=
ded,
nothing is =
scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its =
=
way.
How they are provided for upon the =
earth,
appearing at intervals; How dear and dreadful they are to the earth; How th=
ey
inure to themselves as much as to any--What a paradox appears =
their
age; How people respond to them, yet know them not; How there is something
relentless in their fate, all times; How all times mischoose the objects of
their adulation and reward, And how the same inexorable price must still be
paid for the same great =
purchase.
1.
Is reform needed?=
Is
it through you? The greater the reform needed, the greater the PERSONALITY =
you
need to =
accomplish
it.
You! do you not s=
ee
how it would serve to have eyes, blood, complexion, =
clean
and sweet? Do you not see how it would serve to have such a Body and Soul t=
hat,
when =
you
enter the crowd, an atmosphere of desire and command enters =
with
you, and every one is impressed with your personality?
2.
O the magnet! the
flesh over and over! Go, dear friend! if need be, give up all else, and
commence to-day to inure =
yourself
to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness, =
elevatedness;
Rest not, till you rivet and publish yourself of your own personality.
LINKS.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
1.
Think of the Soul=
; I
swear to you that body of yours gives proportions to your Soul somehow to <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> =
live
in other spheres; I do not know how, but I know it is so.
2.
Think of loving a=
nd
being loved; I swear to you, whoever you are, you can interfuse yourself wi=
th
such =
things
that everybody that sees you shall look longingly upon you.
3.
Think of the past=
; I
warn you that, in a little while, others will find their past in you and =
your
times.
The race is never
separated--nor man nor woman escapes; All is inextricable--things, spirits,
nature, nations, you too--from =
precedents
you come.
Recall the
ever-welcome defiers (the mothers precede them); Recall the sages, poets,
saviours, inventors, lawgivers, of the earth; Recall Christ, brother of
rejected persons--brother of slaves, felons, =
idiots,
and of insane and diseased persons.
4.
Think of the time
when you was not yet born; Think of times you stood at the side of the dyin=
g; Think
of the time when your own body will be dying.
Think of spiritual
results: Sure as the earth swims through the heavens, does every one of its
objects =
pass
into spiritual results.
Think of manhood,=
and
you to be a man; Do you count manhood, and the sweet of manhood, nothing?
Think of womanhoo=
d,
and you to be a woman; =
The
creation is womanhood; Have I not said that womanhood involves all? Have I =
not
told how the universe has nothing better than the best =
womanhood?
The world below the brine. Forests =
at the
bottom of the sea--the branches and leaves, Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, stra=
nge
flowers and seeds--the thick tangle, the =
openings,
and the pink turf, Different colours, pale grey and green, purple, white, a=
nd
gold--the play =
of
light through the water, Dumb swimmers there among the rocks--coral, gluten,
grass, rushes--and the =
aliment
of the swimmers, Sluggish existences grazing there, suspended, or slowly
crawling close to =
the
bottom: The sperm-whale at the surface, blowing air and spray, or disporting
with =
his
flukes, The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy =
sea-leopard,
and the sting-ray. Passions there, wars, pursuits, tribes--sight in those
ocean-depths-- =
breathing
that thick breathing air, as so many do. The change thence to the sight her=
e,
and to the subtle air breathed by =
beings
like us, who walk this sphere: The change onward from ours to that of beings
who walk other spheres.
TO IDENTIFY THE SIXTEENTH,
SEVENTEENTH, OR EIGHTEENTH PRESIDENTIAD.[1]
Why reclining, interrogating? Why m=
yself
and all drowsing? What deepening twilight! Scum floating atop of the waters=
! Who
are they, as bats and night-dogs, askant in the Capitol? What a filthy
Presidentiad! (O South, your torrid suns! O North, your =
Arctic
freezings!) Are those really Congressmen? Are those the great Judges? Is th=
at
the =
President?
Then I will sleep a while yet--for I see that these States sleep, for =
reasons.
With gathering murk--with muttering thunder and lambent shoots, we all duly=
=
awake,
South, North, East, West, inland and seaboard, we will =
surely
awake.
[Footnote 1: These
were the three Presidentships of Polk; of Taylor, succeeded by Fillmore; an=
d of
Pierce;--1845 to 1857.]
TEARS.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
Tears! tears! tears! In the night, in
solitude, tears; On the white shore dripping, dripping, sucked in by the sa=
nd; Tears--not
a star shining--all dark and desolate; Moist tears from the eyes of a muffl=
ed
head: --O who is that ghost?--that form in the dark, with tears? What shape=
less
lump is that, bent, crouched there on the sand? Streaming tears--sobbing
tears--throes, choked with wild cries; O storm, embodied, rising, careering,
with swift steps along the beach; O wild and dismal night-storm, with wind!=
O
belching and desperate! O shade, so sedate and decorous by day, with calm
countenance and regulated =
pace;
But away, at night, as you fly, none looking--O then the unloosened ocean Of
tears! tears! tears!
A SHIP.=
1.
Aboard, at the sh=
ip's
helm, A young steersman, steering with care.
A bell through fo=
g on
a sea-coast dolefully ringing, An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rocked by t=
he
waves.
O you give good
notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing, Ringing, ringing, to warn=
the
ship from its wreck-place. For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the
bell's admonition, The bows turn,--the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away
under her grey =
sails;
The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds away
2.
But O the ship, t=
he
immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! O ship of the body--ship of the
soul--voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.
1.
Great are the
myths--I too delight in them; Great are Adam and Eve--I too look back and
accept them; Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, women, sa=
ges,
=
inventors,
rulers, warriors, and priests.
Great is Liberty!
great is Equality! I am their follower; Helmsmen of nations, choose your cr=
aft!
where you sail, I sail, I weather it out with you, or sink with you.
Great is
Youth--equally great is Old Age--great are the Day and Night; Great is
Wealth--great is Poverty--great is Expression--great is Silence.
2.
Youth, large, lus=
ty,
loving--Youth, full of grace, force, fascination! Do you know that Old Age =
may
come after you, with equal grace, force, =
fascination?
Day, full-blown a=
nd
splendid--Day of the immense sun, action, ambition, =
laughter,
The Night follows close, with millions of suns, and sleep, and restoring =
darkness.
Wealth, with the
flush hand, fine clothes, hospitality; But then the soul's wealth, which is
candour, knowledge, pride, enfolding =
love;
Who goes for men and women showing Poverty richer than wealth?
Expression of spe=
ech!
in what is written or said, forget not that Silence =
is
also expressive; That anguish as hot as the hottest, and contempt as cold as
the coldest, =
may
be without words.
3.
Great is the Eart=
h,
and the way it became what it is: Do you imagine it has stopped at this? the
increase abandoned? Understand then that it goes as far onward from this as
this is from the =
times
when it lay in covering waters and gases, before man had =
appeared.
4.
Great is the qual=
ity
of Truth in man; The quality of truth in man supports itself through all
changes; It is inevitably in the man--he and it are in love, and never leave
each =
other.
The truth in man =
is
no dictum, it is vital as eyesight; If there be any Soul, there is truth--if
there be man or woman, there is =
truth--if
there be physical or moral, there is truth; If there be equilibrium or
volition, there is truth--if there be things at =
all
upon the earth, there is truth.
O truth of the ea=
rth!
O truth of things! I am determined to press my way =
toward
you; Sound your voice! I scale mountains, or dive in the sea, after you.
5.
Great is Language=
--it
is the mightiest of the sciences, It is the fulness, colour, form, diversit=
y of
the earth, and of men and =
women,
and of all qualities and processes; It is greater than wealth, it is greater
than buildings, ships, religions, =
paintings,
music.
Great is the Engl=
ish
speech--what speech is so great as the English? Great is the English
brood--what brood has so vast a destiny as the =
English?
It is the mother of the brood that must rule the earth with the new rule; T=
he
new rule shall rule as the Soul rules, and as the love, justice, =
equality
in the Soul rule.
6.
Great is Law--gre=
at
are the old few landmarks of the law, They are the same in all times, and s=
hall
not be disturbed.
Great is Justice!=
Justice
is not settled by legislators and laws--it is in the Soul; It cannot be var=
ied
by statutes, any more than love, pride, the attraction =
of
gravity, can; It is immutable--it does not depend on majorities--majorities=
or
what not =
come
at last before the same passionless and exact tribunal.
For justice are t=
he
grand natural lawyers, and perfect judges--it is in =
their
souls; It is well assorted--they have not studied for nothing--the great
includes =
the
less; They rule on the highest grounds--they oversee all eras, states, =
administrations.
The perfect judge
fears nothing--he could go front to front before God; Before the perfect ju=
dge
all shall stand back--life and death shall stand =
back--heaven
and hell shall stand back.
7.
Great is Life, re=
al
and mystical, wherever and whoever; Great is Death--sure as Life holds all
parts together, Death holds all =
parts
together.
Has Life much
purport?--Ah! Death has the greatest purport.
1.
Now list to my
morning's romanza; To the cities and farms I sing, as they spread in the
sunshine before me.
2.
A young man came =
to
me bearing a message from his brother; How should the young man know the
whether and when of his brother? Tell him to send me the signs.
And I stood before
the young man face to face, and took his right hand in =
my
left hand, and his left hand in my right hand, And I answered for his broth=
er,
and for men, and I answered for THE POET, =
and
sent these signs.
Him all wait for-=
-him
all yield up to--his word is decisive and final, Him they accept, in him la=
ve,
in him perceive themselves, as amid light, Him they immerse, and he immerses
them.
Beautiful women, =
the
haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people, =
animals,
The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean (so tell I my =
=
morning's
romanza), All enjoyments and properties, and money, and whatever money will
buy, The best farms--others toiling and planting, and he unavoidably reaps,=
The
noblest and costliest cities--others grading and building, and he =
domiciles
there, Nothing for any one but what is for him--near and far are for him,--=
the =
ships
in the offing, The perpetual shows and marches on land, are for him, if they
are for =
anybody.
He puts things in
their attitudes; He puts to-day out of himself, with plasticity and love; He
places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and =
sisters,
associations, employment, politics, so that the rest never =
shame
them afterward, nor assume to command them.
He is the answere=
r; What
can be answered he answers--and what cannot be answered, he shows how =
it
cannot be answered.
3.
A man is a summons
and challenge; (It is vain to skulk--Do you hear that mocking and laughter?=
Do
you hear =
the
ironical echoes?)
Books, friendship=
s,
philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride, beat up =
and
down, seeking to give satisfaction; He indicates the satisfaction, and
indicates them that beat up and down =
also.
Whichever the sex,
whatever the season or place, he may go freshly and =
gently
and safely, by day or by night; He has the pass-key of hearts--to him the
response of the prying of hands =
on
the knobs.
His welcome is
universal--the flow of beauty is not more welcome or =
universal
than he is; The person he favours by day or sleeps with at night is blessed=
.
Every existence h=
as
its idiom--everything has an idiom and tongue; He resolves all tongues into=
his
own, and bestows it upon men, and any man =
translates,
and any man translates himself also; One part does not counteract another
part--he is the joiner--he sees how =
they
join.
He says indiffere=
ntly
and alike, "How are you, friend?" to the President =
at
his levee, And he says, "Good-day, my brother!" to Cudge that hoe=
s in
the sugar- =
field,
And both understand him, and know that his speech is right.
He walks with per=
fect
ease in the Capitol, He walks among the Congress, and one representative sa=
ys
to another, "Here =
is
our equal, appearing and new."
4.
Then the mechanics
take him for a mechanic, And the soldiers suppose him to be a soldier, and =
the
sailors that he has =
followed
the sea, And the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an art=
ist,
And the labourers perceive he could labour with them and love them; No matt=
er
what the work is, that he is the one to follow it, or has =
followed
it, No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters =
=
there.
The English belie=
ve
he comes of their English stock, A Jew to the Jew he seems--a Russ to the
Russ--usual and near, removed from =
none.
Whoever he looks =
at
in the travellers' coffee-house claims him; The Italian or Frenchman is sur=
e,
and the German is sure, and the Spaniard =
is
sure, and the island Cuban is sure; The engineer, the deck-hand on the great
lakes, or on the Mississippi, or St. Lawrence, or Sacramento, or Hudson, or
Paumanok Sound, claims him.
The gentleman of
perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood; The insulter, the prostitute,=
the
angry person, the beggar, see themselves =
in
the ways of him--he strangely transmutes them, They are not vile any more--=
they
hardly know themselves, they are so grown.
BURIAL.=
1.
To think of it! To
think of time--of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages
continued henceforward! Have you guessed you yourself would not continue? H=
ave
you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you feared the future would be nothin=
g to
you?
Is to-day nothing=
? Is
the beginningless past nothing? If the future is nothing, they are just as
surely nothing.
To think that the=
sun
rose in the east! that men and women were flexible, =
real,
alive! that everything was alive! To think that you and I did not see, feel,
think, nor bear our part! To think that we are now here, and bear our part!=
2.
Not a day passes-=
-not
a minute or second, without an accouchement! Not a day passes-not a minute =
or
second, without a corpse!
The dull nights g=
o over,
and the dull days also, The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, The
physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look =
for
an answer, The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sist=
ers
are =
sent
for; Medicines stand unused on the shelf--(the camphor-smell has long perva=
ded =
the
rooms,) The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dyi=
ng, The
twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying, The breath cease=
s, and
the pulse of the heart ceases, The corpse stretches on the bed, and the liv=
ing
look upon it, It is palpable as the living are palpable.
The living look u=
pon
the corpse with their eyesight, But without eyesight lingers a different
living, and looks curiously on the =
corpse.
3.
To think that the
rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and the fruits =
ripen,
and act upon others as upon us now--yet not act upon us! To think of all th=
ese
wonders of city and country, and others taking great interest in them-=
-and
we taking--no interest in them!
To think how eage=
r we
are in building our houses! To think others shall be just as eager, and we
quite indifferent! I see one building the house that serves him a few years=
, or
seventy or =
eighty
years at most, I see one building the house that serves him longer than tha=
t.
Slow-moving and b=
lack
lines creep over the whole earth--they never cease-- =
they
are the burial lines; He that was President was buried, and he that is now
President shall surely =
be
buried.
4.
Gold dash of wave=
s at
the ferry-wharf--posh and ice in the river, half- =
frozen
mud in the streets, a grey discouraged sky overhead, the =
short
last daylight of Twelfth-month, A hearse and stages--other vehicles give
place--the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly driv=
ers.
Steady the trot to
the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is =
passed,
the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the =
hearse
uncloses, The coffin is passed out, lowered, and settled, the whip is laid =
on
the =
coffin,
the earth is swiftly shovelled in, The mound above is flattened with the
spades--silence, A minute, no one moves or speaks--it is done, He is decent=
ly
put away--is there anything more?
He was a good fel=
low,
free-mouthed, quick-tempered, not bad-looking, able =
to
take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life =
or
death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what =
it was
to be flush, grew low-spirited toward =
the
last, sickened, was helped by a contribution, died, aged forty- =
one
years--and that was his funeral.
Thumb extended,
finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather =
clothes,
whip carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler, =
somebody
loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, headway, man =
before
and man behind, good day's work, bad day's work, pet stock, =
mean
stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night; To think that these are so
much and so nigh to other drivers--and he there =
takes
no interest in them!
5.
The markets, the
government, the working-man's wages--to think what account =
they
are through our nights and days! To think that other working-men will make =
just
as great account of them-- =
yet
we make little or no account!
The vulgar and the
refined--what you call sin, and what you call goodness-- =
to
think how wide a difference! To think the difference will still continue to
others, yet we lie beyond =
the
difference.
To think how much
pleasure there is! Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you plea=
sure
from poems? Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or
planning a =
nomination
and election? or with your wife and family? Or with your mother and sisters=
? or
in womanly housework? or the beautiful =
maternal
cares? These also flow onward to others--you and I fly onward, But in due t=
ime
you and I shall take less interest in them.
Your farm, profit=
s,
crops,--to think how engrossed you are! To think there will still be farms,
profits, crops--yet for you, of what =
avail?
6.
What will be will=
be
well--for what is is well; To take interest is well, and not to take intere=
st
shall be well.
The sky continues
beautiful, The pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the
pleasure of =
women
with men, nor the pleasure from poems; The domestic joys, the daily housewo=
rk
or business, the building of =
houses--these
are not phantasms--they have weight, form, location; Farms, profits, crops,
markets, wages, government, are none of them =
phantasms;
The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion, The earth is not an
echo--man and his life, and all the things of his life, =
are
well-considered.
You are not throw=
n to
the winds--you gather certainly and safely around =
yourself;
Yourself! Yourself! Yourself, for ever and ever!
7.
It is not to diff=
use you
that you were born of your mother and father--it =
is
to identify you; It is not that you should be undecided, but that you shoul=
d =
be
decided; Something long preparing and formless is arrived and formed in you=
, You
are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.
The threads that =
were
spun are gathered, the weft crosses the warp, the =
pattern
is systematic.
The preparations =
have
every one been justified, The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their
instruments--the baton has =
given
the signal.
The guest that was
coming--he waited long, for reasons--he is now housed; He is one of those w=
ho
are beautiful and happy--he is one of those that to =
look
upon and be with is enough.
The law of the pa=
st
cannot be eluded, The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, The l=
aw
of the living cannot be eluded--it is eternal; The law of promotion and
transformation cannot be eluded, The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be
eluded, The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons--not one iota thereof=
can
be =
eluded.
8.
Slow-moving and b=
lack
lines go ceaselessly over the earth, Northerner goes carried, and Southerner
goes carried, and they on the =
Atlantic
side, and they on the Pacific, and they between, and all through the Missi=
ssippi
country, and all over the earth.
The great masters=
and
kosmos are well as they go--the heroes and good-doers =
are
well, The known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and =
distinguished,
may be well, But there is more account than that--there is strict account of
all.
The interminable
hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, The barbarians of Africa=
and
Asia are not nothing, The common people of Europe are not nothing--the Amer=
ican
aborigines are =
not
nothing, The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing--the murder=
er
or =
mean
person is not nothing, The perpetual successions of shallow people are not
nothing as they go, The lowest prostitute is not nothing--the mocker of
religion is not nothing =
as
he goes.
9.
I shall go with t=
he
rest--we have satisfaction, I have dreamed that we are not to be changed so
much, nor the law of us =
changed,
I have dreamed that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and =
past
law, And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and p=
ast =
law,
For I have dreamed that the law they are under now is enough.
And I have dreamed
that the satisfaction is not so much changed, and that there is no life
without satisfaction; What is the earth? what are Body and Soul without
satisfaction?
I shall go with t=
he
rest, We cannot be stopped at a given point--that is no satisfaction, To sh=
ow
us a good thing, or a few good things, for a space of time--that is =
no
satisfaction, We must have the indestructible breed of the best, regardless=
of
time. If otherwise, all these things came but to ashes of dung, If maggots =
and
rats ended us, then alarum! for we are betrayed! Then indeed suspicion of
death.
Do you suspect de=
ath?
If I were to suspect death, I should die now: Do you think I could walk
pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation?
10.
Pleasantly and
well-suited I walk: Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good; =
The whole
universe indicates that it is good, The past and the present indicate that =
it
is good.
How beautiful and
perfect are the animals! How perfect is my Soul! How perfect the earth, and=
the
minutest thing upon it! What is called good is perfect, and what is called =
bad
is just as perfect, The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the
imponderable fluids =
are
perfect; Slowly and surely they have passed on to this, and slowly and sure=
ly
they =
yet
pass on.
My Soul! if I rea=
lise
you, I have satisfaction; Animals and vegetables! if I realise you, I have
satisfaction; Laws of the earth and air! if I realise you, I have satisfact=
ion.
I cannot define my
satisfaction, yet it is so; I cannot define my life, yet it is so.
11.
It comes to me no=
w! I
swear I think now that everything without exception has an eternal soul! The
trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have! the =
animals!
I swear I think t=
here
is nothing but immortality! That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the
nebulous float is for it, and =
the
cohering is for it; And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! =
and
life and death =
are
altogether for it!
1.
Something startle=
s me
where I thought I was safest; I withdraw from the still woods I loved; I wi=
ll
not go now on the pastures to walk; I will not strip the clothes from my bo=
dy
to meet my lover the sea; I will not touch my flesh to the earth, as to oth=
er
flesh, to renew me.
2.
O how can the gro=
und
not sicken? How can you be alive, you growths of spring? How can you furnish
health, you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? Are they not continually
putting distempered corpses in you? Is not every continent worked over and =
over
with sour dead?
Where have you di=
sposed
of their carcasses? Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations; Wh=
ere
have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? I do not see any of it upon
you to-day--or perhaps I am deceived; I will run a furrow with my plough--I
will press my spade through the sod, =
and
turn it up underneath; I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.
3.
Behold this compo=
st!
behold it well! Perhaps every mite has once formed part of a sick person--Y=
et
behold! The grass covers the prairies, The bean bursts noiselessly through =
the
mould in the garden, The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, The
apple-buds cluster together on the apple branches, The resurrection of the
wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, The tinge awakes over the
willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, The he-birds carol mornings and evenings,
while the she-birds sit on their =
nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatched eggs, The new-born of animals
appear--the calf is dropped from the cow, the colt from the mare, Out of its little hi=
ll
faithfully rise the potato's dark-green leaves, Out of its hill rises the
yellow maize-stalk; The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all
those strata of sour =
dead.
What chemistry! T=
hat
the winds are really not infectious, That this is no cheat, this transparent
green-wash of the sea, which is so =
amorous
after me; That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with i=
ts =
tongues,
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves=
=
in
it, That all is clean for ever and for ever, That the cool drink from the w=
ell
tastes so good, That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, That the frui=
ts
of the apple-orchard, and of the orange-orchard--that melon=
s,
grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, That when I recline on=
the
grass I do not catch any disease, Though probably every sphere of grass ris=
es
out of what was once a catching =
disease.
4.
Now I am terrifie=
d at
the Earth! it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of s=
uch
corruptions, It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless
successions =
of
diseased corpses, It distils such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor=
, It
renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, It
gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them
1.
Despairing cries
float ceaselessly toward me, day and night, The sad voice of Death--the cal=
l of
my nearest lover, putting forth, =
alarmed,
uncertain, "The Sea I am quickly to sail: come tell me, Come tell me w=
here
I am speeding--tell me my destination."
2.
I understand your
anguish, but I cannot help you; I approach, hear, behold--the sad mouth, the
look out of the eyes, your =
mute
inquiry, "Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me." =
Old
age, alarmed, uncertain--A young woman's voice, appealing to me for =
comfort;
A young man's voice, "Shall I not escape?"
By the City Dead-House, by the gate=
, As
idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangour, I curious pause--for lo!=
an
outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought; Her corpse they deposit
unclaimed, it lies on the damp brick pavement. The divine woman, her body--I
see the body--I look on it alone, That house once full of passion and
beauty--all else I notice not; Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from
faucet, nor odours morbific =
impress
me; But the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house--tha=
t =
ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built, Or
white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or all the
1.
From all the rest=
I
single out you, having a message for you: You are to die--Let others tell y=
ou
what they please, I cannot prevaricate, I am exact and merciless, but I love
you--There is no escape for you.
2.
Softly I lay my r=
ight
hand upon you--you just feel it; I do not argue--I bend my head close, and =
half
envelop it, I sit quietly by--I remain faithful, I am more than nurse, more
than parent or neighbour, I absolve you from all except yourself, spiritual,
bodily--that is =
eternal,--
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.
The sun bursts
through in unlooked-for directions! Strong thoughts fill you, and
confidence--you smile! You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick, Y=
ou
do not see the medicines--you do not mind the weeping friends--I am =
with
you, I exclude others from you--there is nothing to be commiserated, I do n=
ot
commiserate--I congratulate you.
1.
Nations, ten thou=
sand
years before these States, and many times ten =
thousand
years before these States; Garnered clusters of ages, that men and women li=
ke
us grew up and travelled =
their
course, and passed on; What vast-built cities--what orderly republics--what
pastoral tribes and =
nomads;
What histories, rulers, heroes, perhaps transcending all others; What laws,
customs, wealth, arts, traditions; What sort of marriage--what costumes--wh=
at
physiology and phrenology; What of liberty and slavery among them--what they
thought of death and the =
soul;
Who were witty and wise--who beautiful and poetic--who brutish and =
undeveloped;
Not a mark, not a record remains,--And yet all remains.
2.
O I know that tho=
se
men and women were not for nothing, any more than we =
are
for nothing; I know that they belong to the scheme of the world every bit as
much as we =
now
belong to it, and as all will henceforth belong to it.
Afar they stand--=
yet
near to me they stand, Some with oval countenances, learned and calm, Some
naked and savage--Some like huge collections of insects, Some in
tents--herdsmen, patriarchs, tribes, horsemen, Some prowling through
woods--Some living peaceably on farms, labouring, =
reaping,
filling barns, Some traversing paved avenues, amid temples, palaces, factor=
ies,
libraries, =
shows,
courts, theatres, wonderful monuments.
Are those billion=
s of
men really gone? Are those women of the old experience of the earth gone? Do
their lives, cities, arts, rest only with us? Did they achieve nothing for
good, for themselves?
3.
I believe, of all=
those
billions of men and women that filled the unnamed =
lands,
every one exists this hour, here or elsewhere, invisible to =
us,
in exact proportion to what he or she grew from in life, and =
out
of what he or she did, felt, became, loved, sinned, in life.
I believe that was
not the end of those nations, or any person of them, any =
more
than this shall be the end of my nation, or of me; Of their languages,
governments, marriage, literature, products, games, =
wars,
manners, crimes, prisons, slaves, heroes, poets, I suspect =
their
results curiously await in the yet unseen world--counterparts =
of
what accrued to them in the seen world; I suspect I shall meet them there, I
suspect I shall there find each old particular of those unnamed lands.
1.
On the beach at n=
ight
alone, As the old Mother sways her to and fro, singing her savage and husky
song, As I watch the bright stars shining--I think a thought of the clef of=
the
=
universes,
and of the future.
2.
A VAST SIMILITUDE
interlocks all, All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons,
planets, comets, =
asteroids,
All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same, All
distances of place, however wide, All distances of time--all inanimate form=
s, All
Souls--all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in =
different
worlds, All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes--the fishes, the
brutes, All men and women--me also; All nations, colours, barbarisms,
civilisations, languages; All identities that have existed, or may exist, on
this globe, or any =
globe;
All lives and deaths--all of the past, present, future; This vast similitude
spans them, and always has spanned, and shall for ever =
span
them, and compactly hold them.
GOD.
Chanting the Squa=
re
Deific, out of the One advancing, out of the sides; Out of the old and new-=
-out
of the square entirely divine, Solid, four-sided, (all the sides needed)--F=
rom this
side JEHOVAH am I, Old Brahm I, and I Saturnius am; Not Time affects me--I =
am
Time, modern as any; Unpersuadable, relentless, executing righteous judgmen=
ts; As
the Earth, the Father, the brown old Kronos, with laws, Aged beyond
computation--yet ever new--ever with those mighty laws rolling, Relentless,=
I
forgive no man--whoever sins dies--I will have that man's =
life;
Therefore let none expect mercy--Have the seasons, gravitation, the =
appointed
days, mercy?--No more have I; But as the seasons, and gravitation--and as a=
ll
the appointed days, that =
forgive
not, I dispense from this side judgments inexorable, without the least remo=
rse.
Consolator most m=
ild,
the promised one advancing, With gentle hand extended, the mightier God am =
I, Foretold
by prophets and poets, in their most wrapt prophecies and poems; From this
side, lo! the Lord CHRIST gazes--lo! Hermes I--lo! mine is =
Hercules'
face; All sorrow, labour, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself; Many
times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison, and crucified--and =
many
times shall be again; All the world have I given up for my dear brothers' a=
nd
sisters' sake--for =
the
soul's sake; Wending my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the
kiss of =
affection;
For I am affection--I am the cheer-bringing God, with hope, and all- =
enclosing
charity; Conqueror yet--for before me all the armies and soldiers of the ea=
rth
shall =
yet
bow--and all the weapons of war become impotent: With indulgent words, as to
children--with fresh and sane words, mine only; Young and strong I pass,
knowing well I am destined myself to an early =
death:
But my Charity has no death--my Wisdom dies not, neither early nor late, An=
d my
sweet Love, bequeathed here and elsewhere, never dies.
SATAN.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
Aloof, dissatisfi=
ed,
plotting revolt, Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves, Crafty, despised,=
a
drudge, ignorant, With sudra face and worn brow--black, but in the depths o=
f my
heart proud as an=
y; Lifted,
now and always, against whoever, scorning, assumes to rule me; Morose, full=
of
guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles, Though it was thou=
ght
I was baffled and dispelled, and my wiles done--but =
that
will never be; Defiant I SATAN still live--still utter words--in new lands =
duly
appearing, =
and
old ones also; Permanent here, from my side, warlike, equal with any, real =
as
any, Nor time, nor change, shall ever change me or my words.
Santa SPIRITA,[1]
breather, life, Beyond the light, lighter than light, Beyond the flames of
hell--joyous, leaping easily above hell; Beyond Paradise--perfumed solely w=
ith
mine own perfume; Including all life on earth--touching, including
God--including Saviour and =
Satan;
Ethereal, pervading all--for, without me, what were all? what were God? Ess=
ence
of forms--life of the real identities, permanent, positive, namely =
the
unseen, Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man--I, th=
e General Soul, Her=
e the
Square finishing, the solid, I the most solid, Breathe my breath also throu=
gh
these little songs.
[Footnote 1: The
reader will share my wish that Whitman had written sanctus spiritus, which =
is
right, instead of santa spirita, which is methodically wrong.]
1.
The indications a=
nd
tally of time; Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs; Time, alwa=
ys
without flaw, indicates itself in parts; What always indicates the poet is =
the
crowd of the pleasant company of =
singers,
and their words; The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the l=
ight
or dark--but the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark=
; The
maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality, His insight and power
encircle things and the human race, He is the glory and extract, thus far, =
of
things and of the human race.
2.
The singers do not
beget--only the POET begets; The singers are welcomed, understood, appear o=
ften
enough--but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the m=
aker
of poems; Not every century, or every five centuries, has contained such a =
day,
for =
all
its names. The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible
names, but =
the
name of each of them is one of the singers; The name of each is eye-singer,
ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlour-singer,
love-singer, or something else.
3.
All this time, an=
d at
all times, wait the words of poems; The greatness of sons is the exuding of=
the
greatness of mothers and =
fathers;
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.
Divine instinct,
breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of =
body,
withdrawnness, gaiety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some =
of
the words of poems.
4.
The sailor and
traveller underlie the maker of poems, The builder, geometer, chemist,
anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all these =
underlie
the maker of poems.
5.
The words of the =
true
poems give you more than poems, They give you, to form for yourself, poems,
religions, politics, war, =
peace,
behaviour, histories, essays, romances, and everything else, They balance
ranks, colours, races, creeds, and the sexes, They do not seek beauty--they=
are
sought, For ever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing,
fain, =
love-sick.
They prepare for death--yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset,=
They
bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full; Whom they tak=
e,
they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to =
learn
one of the meanings, To launch off with absolute faith--to sweep through the
ceaseless rings, =
and
never be quiet again.
You who celebrate bygones: Who have
explored the outward, the surfaces of the races--the life that has =
exhibited
itself; Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates,
rulers, =
and
priests. I, habitué of the Alleghanies, treating man as he is in
himself, in his own =
rights,
Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the great =
=
pride
of man in himself; Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be; I
project the history of the future.
1.
Whoever you are,
holding me now in hand, Without one thing, all will be useless: I give you =
fair
warning, before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far
different.
2.
Who is he that wo=
uld
become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?
The way is
suspicious--the result uncertain, perhaps destructive; You would have to gi=
ve
up all else--I alone would expect to be your God, =
sole
and exclusive; Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, The w=
hole
past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around =
you,
would have to be abandoned; Therefore release me now, before troubling your=
self
any further--Let go =
your
hand from my shoulders, Put me down, and depart on your way.
Or else, by steal=
th,
in some wood, for trial, Or back of a rock, in the open air, (For in any ro=
ofed
room of a house I emerge not--nor in company, And in libraries I lie as one
dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) But just possibly with you on a high
hill--first watching lest any person, =
for
miles around, approach unawares-- Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on
the beach of the sea, or some =
quiet
island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, With the comrade's
long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband's kiss, For I am the new husband, an=
d I
am the comrade.
Or, if you will,
thrusting me beneath your clothing, Where I may feel the throbs of your hea=
rt,
or rest upon your hip, Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; For thu=
s,
merely touching you, is enough--is best, And thus, touching you, would I
silently sleep, and be carried eternally.
3.
But these leaves
conning, you con at peril, For these leaves, and me, you will not understan=
d, They
will elude you at first, and still more afterward--I will certainly =
elude
you, Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold! =
Already
you see I have escaped from you.
For it is not for
what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading=
it
you will acquire it, Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly
praise me, Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few)
prove =
victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only--they will do just as much evil, perhaps
These I, singing =
in
spring, collect for lovers: For who but I should understand lovers, and all
their sorrow and joy? And who but I should be the poet of comrades? Collect=
ing,
I traverse the garden, the world--but soon I pass the gates, Now along the
pond-side--now wading in a little, fearing not the wet, Now by the
post-and-rail fences, where the old stones thrown there, picked =
from
the fields, have accumulated, Wild flowers and vines and weeds come up thro=
ugh
the stones, and partly =
cover
them--Beyond these I pass, Far, far in the forest, before I think where I g=
o, Solitary,
smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence; Alone, I h=
ad
thought--yet soon a silent troop gathers around me; Some walk by my side, a=
nd
some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck, They, the spirits of friends,
dead or alive--thicker they come, a great =
crowd,
and I in the middle, Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wan=
der
with them, Plucking something for tokens--tossing toward whoever is near me=
. Here
lilac, with a branch of pine, Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pul=
led
off a live-oak in Florida, =
as
it hung trailing down, Here some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of
sage, And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pond-side, (O =
here
I last saw him that tenderly loves me--and returns again, never to =
separate
from me, And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades--this
Calamus- =
root[1]
shall, Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none render it back!) A=
nd
twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and chestnut, And stems of
currants, and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar, These I, compassed around=
by
a thick cloud of spirits, Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw
them loosely from me, Indicating to each one what he shall have--giving
something to each. But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I
reserve; I will give of it--but only to them that love as I myself am capab=
le
of =
loving.
[Footnote 1: I am
favoured with the following indication, from Mr Whitman himself, of the
relation in which this word Calamus is to be understood:--"Calamus is =
the
very large and aromatic grass or rush growing about water-ponds in the
valleys--spears about three feet high; often called Sweet Flag; grows all o=
ver
the Northern and Middle States. The recherché or ethereal sense of t=
he
term, as used in my book, arises probably from the actual Calamus presenting
the biggest and hardiest kind of spears of grass, and their fresh, aquatic,
pungent bouquet."]
1.
Come, I will make=
the
continent indissoluble; I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet
shone upon! I will make divine magnetic lands, =
With
the love of comrades, =
With
the life-long love of comrades.
2.
I will plant
companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America, =
and
along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the prairies; I will make
inseparable cities, with their arms about each other's necks; =
By
the love of comrades, =
By
the manly love of comrades.
3.
For you these, fr=
om
me, O Democracy, to serve you, ma femme! For you! for you, I am trilling th=
ese
songs, =
In
the love of comrades, =
In
the high-towering love of comrades.
Not heaving from =
my
ribbed breast only; Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with mysel=
f; Not
in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs; Not in many an oath and promise
broken; Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition; Not in the subtle
nourishment of the air; Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and
wrists; Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which will one day
cease; Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only; Not in cries,
laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone, far in the =
wilds;
Not in husky pantings through clenched teeth; Not in sounded and resounded
words--chattering words, echoes, dead words; Not in the murmurs of my dreams
while I sleep, Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every da=
y; Nor
in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you and dismiss you =
continually--Not
there; Not in any or all of them, O Adhesiveness! O pulse of my life! Need I
that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs.
WHAT place is besieged, and vainly =
tries
to raise the siege? Lo! I send to that place a commander, swift, brave,
immortal; And with him horse and foot, and parks of artillery, And
artillerymen, the deadliest that ever fired gun.
1.
As I walk, solita=
ry,
unattended, Around me I hear that éclat of the world--politics, prod=
uce,
The announcements of recognised things--science, The approved growth of cit=
ies,
and the spread of inventions.
I see the ships,
(they will last a few years,) The vast factories, with their foremen and
workmen, And hear the endorsement of all, and do not object to it.
2.
But I too announce
solid things; Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not
nothing--they serve, They stand for realities--all is as it should be.
3.
Then my realities=
; What
else is so real as mine? Libertad, and the divine Average-Freedom to every
slave on the face of the =
earth,
The rapt promises and luminé[1] of seers--the spiritual =
world--these
centuries-lasting songs, And our visions, the visions of poets, the most so=
lid
announcements of any.
For we support al=
l, After
the rest is done and gone, we remain, There is no final reliance but upon u=
s; Democracy
rests finally upon us, (I, my brethren, begin it,) And our visions sweep
through eternity.
[Footnote 1: I
suppose Whitman gets this odd word luminé, by a process of his own, =
out
of illuminati, and intends it to stand for what would be called clairvoyanc=
e,
intuition.]
1.
As nearing depart=
ure,
As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud, A dread beyond, of I know not wh=
at,
darkens me.
2.
I shall go forth,=
I
shall traverse the States--but I cannot tell whither or how long; Perhaps s=
oon,
some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease.
3.
O book and chant!
must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of
me?... And yet it is enough, O soul! O soul! we have positively appeared--t=
hat
is enough.
1.
Poets to come! Not
to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for; But you, a new
brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before =
known,
You must justify me.
2.
I but write one or
two indicative words for the future, I but advance a moment, only to wheel =
and
hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who,
sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual =
look
upon you, and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and define i=
t, Expecting
the main things from you. CENTURIES HENCE.
Full of life now, compact, visible,=
I,
forty years old the eighty-third year of the States, To one a century hence=
, or
any number of centuries hence, To you, yet unborn, these seeking you.
When you read the=
se,
I, that was visible, am become invisible; Now it is you, compact, visible,
realising my poems, seeking me; Fancying how happy you were, if I could be =
with
you, and become your loving =
comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. Be not too certain but I am now with you.
1.
To conclude--I
announce what comes after me; I announce mightier offspring, orators, days,=
and
then depart,
I remember I said,
before my leaves sprang at all, I would raise my voice jocund and strong, w=
ith
reference to consummations.
When America does
what was promised, When there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and
sea-board, When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb pers=
ons,
When the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them, When br=
eeds
of the most perfect mothers denote America, Then to me my due fruition.
I have pressed
through in my own right, I have offered my style to every one--I have journ=
eyed
with confident step. While my pleasure is yet at the full, I whisper, So lo=
ng! And
take the young woman's hand, and the young man's hand for the last =
time.
2.
I announce natural
persons to arise, I announce justice triumphant, I announce uncompromising
liberty and equality, I announce the justification of candour, and the
justification of pride.
I announce that t=
he
identity of these States is a single identity only, I announce the Union, o=
ut
of all its struggles and wars, more and more =
compact,
I announce splendours and majesties to make all the previous politics of =
the
earth insignificant.
I announce a man =
or
woman coming--perhaps you are the one (So long!) I announce the great
individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate, =
compassionate,
fully armed. I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual,
bold, And I announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its =
translation.
3.
O thicker and fas=
ter!
(So long!) O crowding too close upon me; I foresee too much--it means more =
than
I thought, It appears to me I am dying.
Hasten throat, and
sound your last! Salute me--salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once
more.
Screaming electri=
c,
the atmosphere using, At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing, Swift=
ly
on, but a little while alighting, Curious enveloped messages delivering, Sp=
arkles
hot, seed ethereal, down in the dirt dropping, Myself unknowing, my commiss=
ion
obeying, to question it never daring, To ages, and ages yet, the growth of =
the
seed leaving, To troops out of me rising--they the tasks I have set promulg=
ing,
To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing--their affection me more cl=
early
explaining, To young men my problems offering--no dallier I--I the muscle of
their =
brains
trying, So I pass--a little time vocal, visible, contrary, Afterward, a
melodious echo, passionately bent for--death making me really =
undying,--
The best of me then when no longer visible--for toward that I have been inc=
essantly
preparing.
What is there mor=
e,
that I lag and pause, and crouch extended with unshut =
mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?
4.
My songs cease--I
abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally, sol=
ely
to you.
Camerado! This is=
no
book; Who touches this touches a man. (Is it night? Are we here alone?) It =
is I
you hold, and who holds you, I spring from the pages into your arms--decease
calls me forth.
O how your fingers
drowse me! Your breath falls around me like dew--your pulse lulls the tympa=
ns
of my =
ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot, Delicious--enough.
Enough, O deed impromptu and secret! Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summed-up past!<= o:p>
5.
Dear friend, whoever you are, here,=
take
this kiss, I give it especially to you--Do not forget me,
I feel like one w=
ho
has done his work--I progress on,--(long enough have I =
dallied
with Life,) The unknown sphere, more real than I dreamed, more direct,
awakening rays =
about
me--So long! Remember my words--I love you--I depart from materials, I am as
one disembodied, triumphant, dead.
While this Select=
ion
was passing through the press, it has been my privilege to receive two lett=
ers
from Mr. Whitman, besides another communicated to me through a friend. I fi=
nd
my experience to be the same as that of some previous writers: that, if one
admires Whitman in reading his books, one loves him on coming into any pers=
onal
relation with him--even the comparatively distant relation of letter-writin=
g.
The more I have to
thank the poet for the substance and tone of his letters, and some particul=
ar
expressions in them, the more does it become incumbent upon me to guard aga=
inst
any misapprehension. He has had nothing whatever to do with this Selection,=
as
to either prompting, guiding, or even ratifying it: except only that he did=
not
prohibit my making two or three verbal omissions in the Prose Preface to the
Leaves of Grass, and he has supplied his own title, President Lincoln's Fun=
eral
Hymn, to a poem which, in my Prefatory Notice, is named (by myself) Nocturn=
for
the Death of Lincoln. All admirers of his poetry will rejoice to learn that=
there
is no longer any doubt of his adding to his next edition "a brief clus=
ter
of pieces born of thoughts on the deep themes of Death and Immortality.&quo=
t; A
new American edition will be dear to many: a complete English edition ought=
to
be an early demand of English poetic readers, and would be the right and
crowning result of the present Selection. W. M. R. 1868.