The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman

The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the torches,

       These I resume as I chant, I see again the forms, I smell the odour,

       Then hear outside the orders given, Fall in, my men, fall in; But first I bend to the dying lad, his eyes open, a half-smile gives he me, Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness, Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks, The unknown road still marching.

COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER

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      Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete,

       And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.

      Lo, 'tis autumn,

       Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,

       Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind,

       Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines

       (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?

       Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?),

       Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds,

       Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.

      Down in the fields all prospers well,

       But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's call,

       And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away.

      Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling,

       She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

      Open the envelope quickly,

       O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd,

       O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul!

       All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only,

       Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better.

      Ah now the single figure to me,

       Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms,

       Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,

       By the jamb of a door leans.

      Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd), See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.

      Alas poor boy, he will never be better (nor may be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul),

       While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,

       The only son is dead.

      But the mother needs to be better,

       She with thin form presently drest in black,

       By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,

       In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,

       O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw,

       To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

A TWILIGHT SONG

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      As I sit in twilight late alone by the flickering oak-flame,

       Musing on long-pass'd war-scenes—of the countless buried unknown soldiers,

       Of the vacant names, as unindented air's and sea's—the unreturn'd,

       The brief truce after battle, with grim burial-squads, and the deep-fill'd trenches

       Of gather'd dead from all America, North, South, East, West, whence they came up,

       From wooded Maine, New-England's farms, from fertile Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio,

       From the measureless West, Virginia, the South, the Carolinas, Texas

       (Even here in my room-shadows and half-lights in the noiseless flickering flames,

       Again I see the stalwart ranks on-filing, rising—I hear the rhythmic tramp of the armies);

       You million unwrit names all, all—you dark bequest from all the war,

       A special verse for you—a flash of duty long neglected—your mystic roll strangely gather'd here,

       Each name recall'd by me from out the darkness and death's ashes,

       Henceforth to be, deep, deep within my heart recording, for many a future year,

       Your mystic roll entire of unknown names, or North or South,

       Embalm'd with love in this twilight song.

A SIGHT IN CAMP IN THE DAYBREAK GRAY AND DIM

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      A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,

       As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,

       As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,

       Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,

       Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,

       Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

      Curious I halt and silent stand,

       Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;

       Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?

       Who are you my dear comrade?

      Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?

       Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?

      Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;

       Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,

       Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

YEAR THAT TREMBLED AND REEL'D BENEATH ME

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      Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me!

       Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me,

       A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me,

       Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself,

       Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled,

       And sullen hymns of defeat?

FIRST O SONGS FOR A PRELUDE

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      First O songs for a prelude,