The Complete Poetry of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

martyrs that hang from the gibbets . . . those hearts pierced by the gray lead,

       Cold and motionless as they seem . . live elsewhere with unslaughter’d vitality.

      They live in other young men, O kings,

       They live in brothers, again ready to defy you:

       They were purified by death . . . . They were taught and exalted.

      Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom . . . . in its turn to bear seed,

       Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.

      Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,

       But it stalks invisibly over the earth . . whispering counseling cautioning.

      Liberty let others despair of you . . . . I never despair of you.

      Is the house shut? Is the master away?

       Nevertheless be ready . . . . be not weary of watching,

       He will soon return . . . . his messengers come anon.

      A Boston Ballad (1855)

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      Clear the way there Jonathan!

       Way for the President’s marshal! Way for the government cannon!

       Way for the federal foot and dragoons . . . . and the phantoms afterward.

      I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston town;

       Here’s a good place at the corner . . . . I must stand and see the show.

      I love to look on the stars and stripes . . . . I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.

      How bright shine the foremost with cutlasses,

       Every man holds his revolver . . . . marching stiff through Boston town.

      A fog follows . . . . antiques of the same come limping,

       Some appear wooden-legged and some appear bandaged and bloodless.

      Why this is a show! It has called the dead out of the earth,

       The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see;

       Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear of it,

       Cocked hats of mothy mould and crutches made of mist,

       Arms in slings and old men leaning on young men’s shoulders.

      What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums?

       Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for firelocks, and level them?

      If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see the President’s marshal,

      If you groan such groans you might balk the government cannon.

      For shame old maniacs! . . . . Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white hair be;

       Here gape your smart grandsons . . . . their wives gaze at them from the windows,

       See how well-dressed . . . . see how orderly they conduct themselves.

      Worse and worse . . . . Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating?

       Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

      Retreat then! Pell-mell! . . . . Back to the hills, old limpers!

       I do not think you belong here anyhow.

       But there is one thing that belongs here . . . . Shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?

      I will whisper it to the Mayor . . . . he shall send a committee to England,

       They shall get a grant from the Parliament, and go with a cart to the royal vault,

       Dig out King George’s coffin . . . . unwrap him quick from the graveclothes . . . . box up his bones for a journey:

       Find a swift Yankee clipper . . . . here is freight for you blackbellied clipper,

       Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! . . . . steer straight toward Boston bay.

      Now call the President’s marshal again, and bring out the government cannon,

       And fetch home the roarers from Congress, and make another procession and guard it with foot and dragoons.

      Here is a centrepiece for them:

       Look! all orderly citizens . . . . look from the windows women.

      The committee open the box and set up the regal ribs and glue those that will not stay,

       And clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.

      You have got your revenge old buster! . . . . The crown is come to its own and more than its own.

      Stick your hands in your pockets Jonathan . . . . you are a made man from this day,

       You are mighty cute . . . . and here is one of your bargains.

      There Was a Child Went Forth (1855)

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      There was a child went forth every day,

       And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,

       And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

      The early lilacs became part of this child,

       And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,

       And the March-born lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf, and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side . . and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there . . and the beautiful curious liquid . . and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads . . all became part of him.

      And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him . . . . wintergrain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,

       And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward . . . . and woodberries . . and the commonest weeds by the road;

       And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he had lately risen,

       And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school . . and the friendly boys that passed . . and the quarrelsome boys . . and the tidy and freshcheeked girls . . and the barefoot negro boy and girl,

       And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.

      His own parents . . he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him . . and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him . . . . they gave this child more of themselves than that,

       They gave him afterward every day . . . . they and of them became part of him.

      The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable,

       The mother with mild words . . . . clean her cap and gown . . . . a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:

       The father, strong, selfsufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,

       The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,

       The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture . . . . the yearning and swelling heart,

       Affection that will not be gainsayed . . . . The sense of what is real . . . . the thought if after all it should prove unreal,