The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman Part 2

_Poet_

I hear and see not strips of cloth alone, I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry, I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men, I hear Liberty!

I hear the drums beat and the trumpets blowing, I myself move abroad swift-rising flying then, I use the wings of the land-bird and use the wings of the sea-bird, and look down as from a height, I do not deny the precious results of peace, I see populous cities with wealth incalculable, I see numberless farms, I see the farmers working in their fields or barns, I see mechanics working, I see buildings everywhere founded, going up, or finish'd, I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks drawn by the locomotives, I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, I see far in the West the immense area of grain, I dwell awhile hovering, I pa.s.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, earn'd wages, See the Ident.i.ty formed out of thirty-eight s.p.a.cious and haughty States (and many more to come), See forts on the sh.o.r.es of harbours, see s.h.i.+ps sailing in and out; Then over all (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen'd pennant shaped like a sword, Runs swiftly up indicating war and defiance--and now the halyards have rais'd it, Side of my banner broad and blue, side of my starry banner, Discarding peace over all the sea and land.

_Banner and Pennant_

Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave!

No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone, We may be terror and carnage, and are so now, Not now are we any one of these s.p.a.cious and haughty States (nor any five, nor ten), Nor market nor depot we, nor money-bank in the city, But these and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines below, are ours, And the sh.o.r.es of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small, And the fields they moisten, and the crops and the fruits are ours, Bays and channels and s.h.i.+ps sailing in and out are ours--while we over all, Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square miles, the capitals, The forty millions of people--O bard! in life and death supreme, We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above, Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you, This song to the soul of one poor little child.

_Child_

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

_Father_

Child of mine you fill me with anguish, To be that pennant would be too fearful, Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever, It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything, Forward to stand in front of wars--and O, such wars!--what have you to do with them?

With pa.s.sions of demons, slaughter, premature death?

_Banner_

Demons and death then I sing, Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war, And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of children, Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the sea, And the black s.h.i.+ps fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke, And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines, And the whirr of drums and the sound of soldiers marching, and the hot sun s.h.i.+ning south, And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my Eastern sh.o.r.e, and my Western sh.o.r.e the same, And all between those sh.o.r.es, and my ever running Mississippi with bends and chutes, And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri, The Continent, devoting the whole ident.i.ty without reserving an atom, Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all and the yield of all, Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole, No more with tender lip, nor musical l.a.b.i.al sound, But out of the night emerging for food, our voice persuasive no more, Croaking like crows here in the wind.

_Poet_

My limbs, my veins dilate, my theme is clear at last, Banner so broad advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and resolute, I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd and blinded, My hearing and tongue are come to me (a little child taught me), I hear from above O pennant of war your ironical call and demand, Insensate! insensate (yet I at any rate chant you), O banner!

Not houses of peace indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity (if need be, you shall again have every one of those houses to destroy them.

You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of comfort, built with money, May they stand fast, then? not an hour except you above them and all stand fast); O banner, not money so precious are you, not farm produce you, nor the material good nutriment, Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the s.h.i.+ps, Not the superb s.h.i.+ps with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying cargoes, Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues--but you as henceforth I see you, Running up out of the night, bringing your cl.u.s.ter of stars (ever-enlarging stars), Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touch'd by the sun, measuring the sky, (Pa.s.sionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little child, While others remain busy or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, thrift); O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake hissing so curious, Out of reach, an idea only, yet furiously fought for, risking b.l.o.o.d.y death, loved by me, So loved--O you banner leading the day with stars brought from the night!

Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all--(absolute owner of all)--O banner and pennant!

I too leave the rest!--great as it is, it is nothing--houses, machines are nothing--I see them not.

I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing you only, Flapping up there in the wind.

THE DYING VETERAN

(_A Long Island incident--early part of the nineteenth century._)

Amid these days of order, ease, prosperity, Amid the current songs of beauty, peace, decorum, I cast a reminiscence--(likely 't will offend you, I heard it in my boyhood)--More than a generation since, A queer old savage man, a fighter under Was.h.i.+ngton himself (Large, brave, cleanly, hot-blooded, no talker, rather spiritualistic, Had fought in the ranks--fought well--had been all through the Revolutionary war), Lay dying--sons, daughters, church-deacons, lovingly tending him, Sharping their sense, their ears, towards his murmuring, half-caught words: "Let me return again to my war-days, To the sights and scenes--to forming the line of battle, To the scouts ahead reconnoitering, To the cannons, the grim artillery, To the galloping aids, carrying orders, To the wounded, the fallen, the heat, the suspense, The perfume strong, the smoke, the deafening noise; Away with your life of peace!--your joys of peace!

Give me my old wild battle-life again!"

THE WOUND-DRESSER

1

An old man bending I come among new faces, Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me (Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war, But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd myself, To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead); Years hence of these scenes, of these furious pa.s.sions, these chances, Of unsurpa.s.s'd heroes (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave); Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?

What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?

2

O maidens and young men I love and that love me, What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls, Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat and dust, In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge, Enter the captur'd works--yet lo, like a swift-running river they fade, Pa.s.s and are gone they fade--I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers' joys (Both I remember well--many the hards.h.i.+ps, 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, With hinged knees returning I enter the doors (while for you up there, Whoever you are, follow 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 gra.s.s, the ground, Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital, To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss, An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill'd again.

I onward go, I stop, With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs 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.

3

On, on I go (open doors of time! open hospital doors!) The crush'd head I dress (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away), The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine, Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard, (Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!

In mercy come quickly).

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood, Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and side-falling head, His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the b.l.o.o.d.y stump, And has not yet look'd 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 fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, These and more I dress with impa.s.sive hand (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame).

4

Thus in silence in dreams' projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand, I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad (Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested, Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips).

DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS

The last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath, On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking Down a new-made double grave

Lo, the moon ascending, Up from the east the silvery round moon, Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, Immense and silent moon.

I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-key'd bugles, All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, As with voices and with tears.