Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

Distant and dead resuscitate,

       They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.

       I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment,

       I am there again.

       Again the long roll of the drummers,

       Again the attacking cannon, mortars,

       Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.

       I take part, I see and hear the whole,

       The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots,

       The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip,

       Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs,

       The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion,

       The whizz of limbs, heads, stone, wood, iron, high in the air.

       Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves

       with his hand,

       He gasps through the clot Mind not me—mind—the entrenchments.

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       Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth,

       (I tell not the fall of Alamo,

       Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo,

       The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,)

       'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve

       young men.

       Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for

       breastworks,

       Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, nine times their

       number, was the price they took in advance,

       Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone,

       They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and

       seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.

       They were the glory of the race of rangers,

       Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship,

       Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate,

       Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters,

       Not a single one over thirty years of age.

       The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads and

       massacred, it was beautiful early summer,

       The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.

       None obey'd the command to kneel,

       Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight,

       A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead

       lay together,

       The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw them there,

       Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away,

       These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets,

       A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more

       came to release him,

       The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.

       At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies;

       That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.

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       Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?

       Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

       List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.

       Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)

       His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer,

       and never was, and never will be;

       Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us.

       We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd,

       My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.

       We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water,

       On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire,

       killing all around and blowing up overhead.

       Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,

       Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain,

       and five feet of water reported,

       The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold

       to give them a chance for themselves.

       The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,

       They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

       Our frigate takes fire,

       The other asks if we demand quarter?

       If our colors are struck and the fighting done?

       Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,

       We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part

       of the fighting.

       Only three guns are in use,

       One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast,

       Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and

       clear his decks.

       The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially

       the main-top,

       They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

       Not a moment's cease,

       The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.

       One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.

       Serene stands the little captain,

       He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,

       His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

       Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us.

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       Stretch'd and still lies the midnight,

       Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,

       Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the

       one we have conquer'd,

       The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a

       countenance white as a sheet,

       Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin,

       The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully

       curl'd whiskers,

       The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,

       The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,

       Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh

       upon the masts and spars,

       Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,

       Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,

       A few large