11

I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings,       
The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen;       
The sacred imperial hymns of China,       
To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone;)       
Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina,    120   
A band of bayaderes.       
     
12

Now Asia, Africa leave me—Europe, seizing, inflates me;       
To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of voices,       
Luther’s strong hymn, Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott;       
Rossini’s Stabat Mater dolorosa;    125   
Or, floating in some high cathedral dim, with gorgeous color’d windows,       
The passionate Agnus Dei, or Gloria in Excelsis.       
     
13

Composers! mighty maestros!       
And you, sweet singers of old lands—Soprani! Tenori! Bassi!       
To you a new bard, carolling free in the west,    130   
Obeisant, sends his love.       
     
(Such led to thee, O Soul!       
All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee,       
But now, it seems to me, sound leads o’er all the rest.)       
     
14

I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul’s Cathedral;    135   
Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, oratorios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn;       
The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me.       
     
Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,)       
Fill me with all the voices of the universe,       
Endow me with their throbbings—Nature’s also,    140   
The tempests, waters, winds—operas and chants—marches and dances,       
Utter—pour in—for I would take them all.       
     
15

Then I woke softly,       
And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,       
And questioning all those reminiscences—the tempest in its fury,    145   
And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,       
And those rapt oriental dances, of religious fervor,       
And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs,       
And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death,       
I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber-chamber,    150   
Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long,       
Let us go forth refresh’d amid the day,       
Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,       
Nourish’d henceforth by our celestial dream.       
     
And I said, moreover,    155   
Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds,       
Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk’s flapping wings, nor harsh scream,       
Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy,       
Nor German organ majestic—nor vast concourse of voices—nor layers of harmonies;       
Nor strophes of husbands and wives—nor sound of marching soldiers,    160   
Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps;       
But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,       
Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten,       
Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write.

187. Ashes of Soldiers

        Again a verse for sake of you,
        You soldiers in the ranks—you Volunteers,
        Who bravely fighting, silent fell,
        To fill unmention’d graves.



ASHES of soldiers!       
As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,       
Lo! the war resumes—again to my sense your shapes,       
And again the advance of armies.       
     
Noiseless as mists and vapors,            5   
From their graves in the trenches ascending,       
From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,       
From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,       
In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they come,       
And silently gather round me.     10   
     
Now sound no note, O trumpeters!       
Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,       
With sabres drawn and glist’ning, and carbines by their thighs—(ah, my brave horsemen!       
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,       
With all the perils, were yours!)     15   
     
Nor you drummers—neither at reveille, at dawn,       
Nor the long roll alarming the camp—nor even the muffled beat for a burial;       
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.       
     
But aside from these, and the marts of wealth, and the crowded promenade,       
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,     20   
The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,       
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.       
     
Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;       
Draw close, but speak not.       
     
Phantoms of countless lost!     25   
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!       
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.       
     
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet are the musical voices sounding!       
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.       
     
Dearest comrades! all is over and long gone;     30   
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!       
Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from foetor arising.       
     
Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!       
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,       
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!     35   
     
Perfume all! make all wholesome!       
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,       
O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.       
     
Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain,       
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew,     40   
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.

188. In Midnight Sleep



1

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.       
     
2

Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;            5   
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.       
     
3

Long, 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,     10   
Onward I sped at the time—But now of their forms at night,       
    I dream, I dream, I dream.

189. Camps of Green



NOT alone those camps of white, O soldiers,       
When, as order’d forward, after a long march,       
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessen’d, we halted for the night;       
Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping asleep in our tracks;       
Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up began to sparkle;            5   
Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through the dark,       
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety;       
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the drums,       
We rose up refresh’d, the night and sleep pass’d over, and resumed our journey,       
Or proceeded to battle.     10   
     
Lo! the camps of the tents of green,       
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep filling,       
With a mystic army, (is it too order’d forward? is it too only halting awhile,       
Till night and sleep pass over?)       
     
Now in those camps of green—in their tents dotting the world;     15   
In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them—in the old and young,       
Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping under the moonlight, content and silent there at last,       
Behold the mighty bivouac-field, and waiting-camp of all,       
Of corps and generals all, and the President over the corps and generals all,       
And of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks we fought,     20   
(There without hatred we shall all meet.)       
     
For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-camps of green;       
But we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the countersign,       
Nor drummer to beat the morning drum.

190. To a Certain Civilian



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;            5   
The drum-corps’ harsh rattle is 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.

191. Pensive on Her Dead Gazing, I Heard the Mother of All



PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,       
Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battle-fields gazing;       
(As the last gun ceased—but the scent of the powder-smoke linger’d;)       
As she call’d to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk’d:       
Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried—I charge you, lose not my sons! lose not an atom;            5   
And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood;       
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,       
And all you essences of soil and growth—and you, my rivers’ depths;       
And you, mountain sides—and the woods where my dear children’s blood, trickling, redden’d;       
And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all future trees,     10   
My dead absorb—my young men’s beautiful bodies absorb—and their precious, precious, precious blood;       
Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give me, many a year hence,       
In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence;       
In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darlings—give my immortal heroes;       
Exhale me them centuries hence—breathe me their breath—let not an atom be lost;     15   
O years and graves! O air and soil! O my dead, an aroma sweet!       
Exhale them perennial, sweet death, years, centuries hence.

192. When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d



1

WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard 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.       
     
O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;       
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,            5   
And thought of him I love.       
     
2

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!     10   
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!       
     
3

In the door-yard 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 door-yard,     15   
With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,       
A sprig, with its flower, I break.       
     
4

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,       
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.       
     
Solitary, the thrush,     20   
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 gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)     25   
     
5

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 debris;)       
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 uprising;       
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;     30   
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,       
Night and day journeys a coffin.       
     
6

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,       
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,       
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,     35   
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,       
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,       
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,       
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,       
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;     40   
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,       
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,       
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;       
Here! coffin that slowly passes,       
I give you my sprig of lilac.     45   
     
7

(Nor for you, for one, alone;       
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:       
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.       
     
All over bouquets of roses,       
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;     50   
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,       
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;       
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,       
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)       
     
8

O western orb, sailing the heaven!     55   
Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d,       
As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,       
As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,       
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,       
As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;)     60   
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;)       
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;       
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,       
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,       
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,     65   
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.       
     
9

Sing on, there in the swamp!       
O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;       
I hear—I come presently—I understand you;       
But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me;     70   
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.       
     
10

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?       
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?       
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?       
     
Sea-winds, blown from east and west,     75   
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:       
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,       
I perfume the grave of him I love.       
     
11

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?       
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,     80   
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?       
     
Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,       
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,       
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;       
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;     85   
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;       
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;       
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,       
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.       
     
12

Lo! body and soul! this land!     90   
Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;       
The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,       
And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.       
     
Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;       
The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;     95   
The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;       
The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;       
The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,       
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.       
     
13

Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!    100   
Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;       
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.       
     
Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;       
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.       
     
O liquid, and free, and tender!    105   
O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!       
You only I hear......yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)       
Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.       
     
14

Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,       
In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,    110   
In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,       
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;)       
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,       
The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d,       
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,    115   
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;       
And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there,       
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,       
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;       
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.    120   
     
15

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,       
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,       
And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,       
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,       
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,    125   
To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.       
     
And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me;       
The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three;       
And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.       
     
From deep secluded recesses,    130   
From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,       
Came the carol of the bird.       
     
And the charm of the carol rapt me,       
As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;       
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.    135   
     
DEATH CAROL.

16

Come, lovely and soothing Death,       
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,       
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,       
Sooner or later, delicate Death.       
     
Prais’d be the fathomless universe,    140   
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;       
And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise!       
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.       
     
Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,       
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?    145   
     
Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;       
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.       
     
Approach, strong Deliveress!       
When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,       
Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,    150   
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.       
     
From me to thee glad serenades,       
Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;       
And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,       
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.    155   
     
The night, in silence, under many a star;       
The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;       
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,       
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.       
     
Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!    160   
Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;       
Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,       
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!       
     
17

To the tally of my soul,       
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,    165   
With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.       
     
Loud in the pines and cedars dim,       
Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;       
And I with my comrades there in the night.       
     
While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,    170   
As to long panoramas of visions.       
     
18

I saw askant the armies;       
And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;       
Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,       
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody;    175   
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)       
And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.       
     
I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,       
And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;       
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;    180   
But I saw they were not as was thought;       
They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not;       
The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,       
And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,       
And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.    185   
     
19

Passing the visions, passing the night;       
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;       
Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,       
(Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,       
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,    190   
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,       
Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,       
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,)       
Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;       
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring,    195   
I cease from my song for thee;       
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,       
O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.       
     
20

Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;       
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,    200   
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,       
With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,       
With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;       
With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,       
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;    205   
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands...and this for his dear sake;       
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,       
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.

193. O Captain! My Captain!



1

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;       
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;       
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,       
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:       
    But O heart! heart! heart!            5   
      O the bleeding drops of red,       
        Where on the deck my Captain lies,       
          Fallen cold and dead.       
     
2

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;       
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;     10   
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;       
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;       
    Here Captain! dear father!       
      This arm beneath your head;       
        It is some dream that on the deck,     15   
          You’ve fallen cold and dead.       
     
3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;       
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;       
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;       
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;     20   
    Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!       
      But I, with mournful tread,       
        Walk the deck my Captain lies,       
          Fallen cold and dead.

194. Hush’d be the Camps To-day



1

HUSH’D be the camps to-day;       
And, soldiers, let us drape our war-worn weapons;       
And each with musing soul retire, to celebrate,       
Our dear commander’s death.       
     
No more for him life’s stormy conflicts;            5   
Nor victory, nor defeat—no more time’s dark events,       
Charging like ceaseless clouds across the sky.       
     
2

But sing, poet, in our name;       
Sing of the love we bore him—because you, dweller in camps, know it truly.       
     
As they invault the coffin there;     10   
Sing—as they close the doors of earth upon him—one verse,       
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.

195. This Dust was Once the Man



THIS dust was once the Man,       
Gentle, plain, just and resolute—under whose cautious hand,       
Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age,       
Was saved the Union of These States.