THE DYING VETERAN

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.

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 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 a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of children,Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the sea,And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop'd in smoke,And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines,And the whirr of drums and the sound of soldiers marching, and the hot sun shining south,And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my Eastern shore, and my Western shore the same,And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi with bends and chutes,And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri,The Continent, devoting the whole identity without reserving an atom,Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all and the yield of all,Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole,No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound,But out of the night emerging for food, our voice persuasive no more,Croaking like crows here in the wind.

My limbs, my veins dilate, my theme is clear at last,Banner so broad advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and resolute,I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen'd and blinded,My hearing and tongue are come to me (a little child taught me),I hear from above O pennant of war your ironical call and demand,Insensate! insensate (yet I at any rate chant you), O banner!Not houses of peace indeed are you, nor any nor all their prosperity (if need be, you shall again have every one of those houses to destroy them.You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of comfort, built with money,May they stand fast, then? not an hour except you above them and all stand fast);O banner, not money so precious are you, not farm produce you, nor the material good nutriment,Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships,Not the superb ships with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying cargoes,Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues—but you as henceforth I see you,Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars (ever-enlarging stars),Divider of daybreak you, cutting the air, touch'd by the sun, measuring the sky,(Passionately seen and yearn'd for by one poor little child,While others remain busy or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, thrift);O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake hissing so curious,Out of reach, an idea only, yet furiously fought for, risking bloody death, loved by me,So loved—O you banner leading the day with stars brought from the night!Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all—(absolute owner of all)—O banner and pennant!I too leave the rest!—great as it is, it is nothing—houses, machines are nothing—I see them not.I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing you only,Flapping up there in the wind.

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 Washington 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!"

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 passions, these chances,Of unsurpass'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?

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,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,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 grass, 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.

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 bloody 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 impassive hand (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame).

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).

The last sunbeamLightly falls from the finish'd Sabbath,On the pavement here, and there beyond it is lookingDown 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.

I hear the great drums pounding,And the small drums steady whirring,And every blow of the great convulsive drums,Strikes me through and through.

For the son is brought with the father(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell,Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,And the double grave awaits them).

Now nearer blow the bugles,And the drums strike more convulsive,And the daylight over the pavement quite has faded,And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

In the eastern sky up-buoying,The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin'd('Tis some mother's large transparent face,In heaven brighter growing).

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.

The moon gives you light,And the bugles and the drums give you music,And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,My heart gives you love.

From far Dakota's cañons,Lands of the wild ravine, the dusky Sioux, the lonesome stretch, the silence,Haply to-day a mournful wail, haply a trumpet-note for heroes.

The battle-bulletin,The Indian ambuscade, the craft, the fatal environment,The cavalry companies fighting to the last in sternest heroism,In the midst of their little circle, with their slaughter'd horses for breastworks,The fall of Custer and all his officers and men.

Continues yet the old, old legend of our race,The loftiest of life upheld by death,The ancient banner perfectly maintain'd,O lesson opportune, O how I welcome thee!

As sitting in dark days,Lone, sulky, through the time's thick murk looking in vain for light, for hope,From unsuspected parts a fierce and momentary proof(The sun there at the centre though conceal'd,Electric life forever at the centre),Breaks forth a lightning flash.

Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle,I erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever in front, bearing a bright sword in thy hand,Now ending well in death the splendid fever of thy deeds(I bring no dirge for it or thee, I bring a glad triumphal sonnet),Desperate and glorious, aye in defeat most desperate, most glorious,After thy many battles in which never yielding up a gun or a colour,Leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers,Thou yieldest up thyself.

In midnight sleep of many a face of anguish,Of the look at first of the mortally wounded (of that indescribable look),Of the dead on their backs with arms extended wide,I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of Nature, fields and mountains,Of skies so beauteous after a storm, and 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.

Long have they pass'd, faces and trenches and fields,Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure, or away from the fallen,Onward I sped at the time—but now of their forms at night,I dream, I dream, I dream.

Delicate cluster! flag of teeming life!Covering all my lands—all my seashores lining!Flag of death! (how I watch'd you through the smoke of battle pressing!How I heard you flap and rustle, cloth defiant!)Flag cerulean—sunny flag, with the orbs of night dappled!Ah my silvery beauty—ah my woolly white and crimson!Ah to sing the song of you, my matron mighty!My sacred one, my mother!

Did you ask dulcet rhymes from me?Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing rhymes?Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow?Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand—nor am I now;(I have been born of the same as the war was born,The drum-corps' rattle is ever to me sweet music, I love well the martial dirge,With slow wail and convulsive throb leading the officer's funeral);What to such as you anyhow such a poet as I? therefore leave my works,And go lull yourself with what you can understand, and with piano-tunes,For I lull nobody, and you will never understand me.

Adieu O soldier,You of the rude campaigning (which we shared),The rapid march, the life of the camp,The hot contention of opposing fronts, the long manoeuvre,Red battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong terrific game,Spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you and like of you all fill'd,With war and war's expression.

Adieu dear comrade,Your mission is fulfill'd—but I, more warlike,Myself and this contentious soul of mine,Still on our own campaigning bound,Through untried roads with ambushes opponents lined,Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis, often baffled,Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out—aye here,To fiercer, weightier battles give expression.

Long, too long America,Travelling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and prosperity only,But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are.(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse really are?).

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

For the lands and for these passionate 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.

Ever upon this stage,Is acted God'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 shore, the musical, strong waves,The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees,The liliput countless armies of the grass,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.

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 ship 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 God is hospitable).

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 pass'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.

(Pass, pass, 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.

Pass—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 bloody bandage and the crutch,Lo, your pallid army follows.)

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 grass,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.

I saw the day the return of the heroes,(Yet the heroes never surpass'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 clusters of mightycamps.

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 bloody 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.

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.

I see where the Mother of All,With full-spanning eye gazes forth, dwells long,And counts the varied gathering of the products.

Busy the far, the sunlit panorama,Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North,Cotton and rice of the South and Louisianian cane,Open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy,Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine,And many a stately river flowing and many a jocund brook,And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes,And the good green grass, that delicate miracle the ever-recurring grass.

Toil on heroes! harvest the products!Not alone on those warlike fields the Mother of All,With dilated form and lambent eyes watch'd you.

Toil on heroes! toil well! handle the weapons well!The Mother of All, yet here as ever she watches you.

Well-pleased America thou beholdest,Over the fields of the West those crawling monsters,The human-divine inventions, the labour-saving implements;Beholdest moving in every direction imbued as with life the revolving hay-rakes,The steam-power reaping-machines and the horse-power machines,The engines, thrashers of grain and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw, the nimble work of the patent pitchfork,Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser.

Beneath thy look O Maternal,With these and else and with their own strong hands the heroes harvest.

All gather and all harvest,Yet but for thee O Powerful, not a scythe might swing as now in security,Not a maize-stalk dangle as now its silken tassels in peace.

Under thee only they harvest, even but a wisp of hay under thy great face only,Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, every barbed spear under thee,Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, each ear in its light-green sheath,Gather the hay to its myriad mows in the odorous tranquil barns,Oats to their bins, the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs;Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama, dig and hoard the golden the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas,Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp or tobacco in the Borders,Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees or bunches of grapes from the vines,Or aught that ripens in all these States or North or South,Under the beaming sun and under thee.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,And thought of him I love.

O powerful western fallen star!O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!O great star disappear'd—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 free my soul.

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd 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 love,With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard,With delicate-colour'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,A sprig with its flower I break.

In the swamp in secluded recesses,A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush,The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat,Death's outlet song of life (for well dear brother I know,If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die).

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray débris,Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen,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.

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