The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman Part 4

WEAVE IN, MY HARDY LIFE

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

HOW SOLEMN AS ONE BY ONE

(_Was.h.i.+ngton City, 1865_)

How solemn as one by one, As the ranks returning 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 never 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 stab O friend.

SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE

(_Was.h.i.+ngton City, 1865_)

Spirit whose work is done--spirit of dreadful hours!

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

THE RETURN OF THE HEROES

1

For the lands and for these pa.s.sionate days and for myself, Now I awhile retire to thee O soil of autumn fields, Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee, Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart, Tuning a verse for thee.

O earth that hast no voice, confide to me a voice, O harvest of my lands--O boundless summer growths, O lavish brown parturient earth--O infinite teeming womb, A song to narrate thee.

2

Ever upon this stage, Is acted G.o.d's calm annual drama, Gorgeous processions, songs of birds, Sunrise that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, The heaving sea, the waves upon the sh.o.r.e, the musical, strong waves, The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, The liliput countless armies of the gra.s.s, The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, The scenery of the snows, the winds' free orchestra, The stretching light-hung roof of clouds, the clear cerulean and the silvery fringes, The high-dilating stars, the placid beckoning stars, The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, The shows of all the varied lands and all the growths and products.

3

Fecund America--to-day, Thou art all over set in births and joys!

Thou groan'st with riches, thy wealth clothes thee as a swathing garment, Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions, A myriad-twining life like interlacing vines binds all thy vast demesne, As some huge s.h.i.+p freighted to water's edge thou ridest into port, As rain falls from the heaven and vapours rise from the earth, so have the precious values fallen upon thee and risen out of thee; Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle!

Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty, Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns, Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle and lookest out upon thy world, and lookest East and lookest West, Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles, a million farms, and missest nothing, Thou all-acceptress--thou hospitable (thou only art hospitable as G.o.d is hospitable).

4

When late I sang sad was my voice, Sad were the shows around me with deafening noises of hatred and smoke of war; In the midst of the conflict, the heroes, I stood, Or pa.s.s'd with slow step through the wounded and dying.

But now I sing not war, Nor the measur'd march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps, Nor the regiments hastily coming up deploying in line of battle; No more the sad, unnatural shows of war.

Ask'd room those flush'd immortal ranks, the first forth-stepping armies?

Ask room alas the ghastly ranks, the armies dread that follow'd.

(Pa.s.s, pa.s.s, ye proud brigades, with your tramping sinewy legs, With your shoulders young and strong, with your knapsacks and your muskets; How elate I stood and watch'd you, where starting off you march'd.

Pa.s.s--then rattle drums again, For an army heaves in sight, O another gathering army, Swarming, trailing on the rear, O you dread accruing army, O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea, with your fever, O my land's maim'd darlings, with the plenteous b.l.o.o.d.y bandage and the crutch, Lo, your pallid army follows.)

5

But on these days of brightness, On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns, Should the dead intrude?

Ah the dead to me mar not, they fit well in Nature, They fit very well in the landscape under the trees and gra.s.s, And along the edge of the sky in the horizon's far margin.

Nor do I forget you Departed, Nor in winter or summer my lost ones, But most in the open air as now when my soul is rapt and at peace, like pleasing phantoms, Your memories rising glide silently by me.

6

I saw the day the return of the heroes, (Yet the heroes never surpa.s.s'd shall never return, Them that day I saw not).

I saw the interminable corps, I saw the processions of armies, I saw them approaching, defiling by with divisions, Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in cl.u.s.ters of mighty camps.

No holiday soldiers--youthful, yet veterans, Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop, Harden'd of many a long campaign and sweaty march, Inured on many a hard-fought b.l.o.o.d.y field.

A pause--the armies wait, A million flush'd embattled conquerors wait, The world too waits, then soft as breaking night and sure as dawn, They melt, they disappear.

Exult O lands! victorious lands!

Not there your victory on those red shuddering fields, But here and hence your victory.

Melt, melt away ye armies--disperse ye blue-clad soldiers, Resolve ye back again, give up for good your deadly arms, Other the arms the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, With saner wars, sweet wars, life-giving wars.

7

Loud O my throat, and clear O soul!

The season of thanks and the voice of full-yielding, The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.

All till'd and untill'd fields expand before me, I see the true arenas of my race, or first or last, Man's innocent and strong arenas.

I see the heroes at other toils, I see well-wielded in their hands the better weapons.