Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman

from the side of their prepared graves,

       How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipped unshaved men;

       All this I swallow and it tastes good . . . . I like it well, and it becomes mine,

       I am the man . . . . I suffered . . . . I was there.

      The disdain and calmness of martyrs,

       The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on;

      The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat,

       The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck,

       The murderous buckshot and the bullets,

       All these I feel or am.

      I am the hounded slave . . . . I wince at the bite of the dogs,

       Hell and despair are upon me . . . . crack and again crack the marksmen,

       I clutch the rails of the fence . . . . my gore dribs thinned with the ooze of my skin,

       I fall on the weeds and stones,

       The riders spur their unwilling horses and haul close,

       They taunt my dizzy ears . . . . they beat me violently over the head with their whip-stocks.

      Agonies are one of my changes of garments;

       I do not ask the wounded person how he feels . . . . I myself become the wounded person,

       My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

      I am the mashed fireman with breastbone broken . . . . tumbling walls buried me in their debris,

       Heat and smoke I inspired . . . . I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,

       I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels;

       They have cleared the beams away . . . . they tenderly lift me forth.

      I lie in the night air in my red shirt . . . . the pervading hush is for my sake,

       Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy,

       White and beautiful are the faces around me . . . . the heads are bared of their fire-caps,

       The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

      Distant and dead resuscitate,

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

      I am an old artillerist, and tell of some fort’s bombardment . . . . and am there again.

      Again the reveille of drummers . . . . again the attacking cannon and mortars and howitzers,

       Again the attacked send their cannon responsive.

      I take part . . . . I see and hear the whole,

       The cries and curses and roar . . . . the plaudits for well aimed shots,

       The ambulanza slowly passing and trailing its red drip,

       Workmen searching after damages and to make indispensible repairs,

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

       The whizz of limbs heads stone wood and 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.

      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.

      Hear now the tale of a jetblack sunrise,

       Hear of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve young men.

      Retreating they had formed in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks,

       Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy’s 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, received writing and seal, gave up their arms, and marched back prisoners of war.

      They were the glory of the race of rangers,

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

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

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

       Not a single one over thirty years of age.

      The second Sunday 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 obeyed 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 maimed and mangled dug in the dirt . . . . the new-comers saw them there;

       Some half-killed attempted to crawl away,

       These were dispatched with bayonets or battered with the blunts of muskets;

       A youth not seventeen years old seized his assassin till two more came to release him,

       The three were all torn, and covered with the boy’s blood.

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

       And that is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men,

       And that was a jetblack sunrise.

      Did you read in the seabooks of the oldfashioned frigate-fight?

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

      Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you,

       His was the English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;

       Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking us.

      We closed with him . . . . the yards entangled . . . . the cannon touched,

       My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

      We had received 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.

      Ten o’clock at night, and the full moon shining and the 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 was now stopped by the sentinels,

       They saw so many strange faces they did not know whom to trust.

      Our frigate was afire . . . . the other asked if we demanded quarters? if our colors were struck and the fighting done?

      I laughed content when I heard the voice of my little captain,

       We have not struck, he composedly cried, We have just begun our part of the fighting.

      Only three guns were in use,

       One was directed by the captain himself against the enemy’s mainmast,

       Two well-served with grape and canister silenced his musketry and cleared his decks.

      The tops alone seconded the fire of this little battery, especially the maintop,

       They all held out bravely during the whole of the action.

      Not a moment’s cease,

       The leaks gained fast on the pumps . . . . the fire