Drum-Taps

by Walt Whitman

  I hear the tramp of armies, I hear the challenging sentry;

  I hear the jubilant shouts of millions of men—I hear LIBERTY!

  I hear the drums beat, and the trumpets blowing;

  I myself move abroad, swift-rising, flying then;

  I use the wings of the land-bird, and use the wings of the sea-bird, and look down as from a height;

  I do not deny the precious results of peace—I see populous cities, with wealth incalculable;

  I see numberless farms—I see the farmers working in their fields or barns;

  I see mechanics working—I see buildings everywhere founded, going up, or finish’d;

  I see trains of cars swiftly speeding along railroad tracks, drawn by the locomotives;

  I see the stores, depots, of Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans;

  I see far in the west the immense area of grain—I dwell awhile, hovering;

  I pass to the lumber forests of the north, and again to the southern plantation, and again to California;

  Sweeping the whole, I see the countless profit, the busy gatherings, earned wages;

  See the identity formed out of thirty-six spacious and haughty States, (and many more to come;)

  See forts on the shores of harbors—see ships sailing in and out;

  Then over all, (aye! aye!) my little and lengthen’d pennant shaped like a sword,

  Runs swiftly up, indicating war and defiance—And now the halyards have rais’d it,

  Side of my banner broad and blue—side of my starry banner,

  Discarding peace over all the sea and land.

  BANNER AND PENNANT

  Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave!

  No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone;

  We can be terror and carnage also, and are so now;

  Not now are we one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor any five, nor ten;)

  Nor market nor depot are we, nor money-bank in the city;

  But these, and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines below, are ours;

  And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small;

  And the fields they moisten are ours, and the crops and the fruits are ours;

  Bays and channels, and ships sailing in and out, are ours—and we over all,

  Over the area spread below, the three millions of square miles—the capitals,

  The thirty-five millions of people—O bard! in life and death supreme,

  We, even we, from this day flaunt out masterful, high up above,

  Not for the present alone, for a thousand years, chanting through you,

  This song to the soul of one poor little child.

  CHILD

  O my father, I like not the houses;

  They will never to me be anything—nor do I like money;

  But to mount up there I would like, O father dear—that banner I like;

  That pennant I would be, and must be.

  FATHER

  Child of mine, you fill me with anguish;

  To be that pennant would be too fearful;

  Little you know what it is this day, and henceforth forever;

  It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy everything;

  Forward to stand in front of wars—and O, such wars!—what have you to do with them?

  With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?

  POET

  Demons and death then I sing;

  Put in all, aye all, will I—sword-shaped pennant for war, and banner so broad and blue,

  And a pleasure new and extatic, and the prattled yearning of children,

  Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land, and the liquid wash of the sea;

  And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines;

  And the whirr of drums, and the sound of soldiers marching, and the hot sun shining south;

  And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my eastern shore, and my western shore the same;

  And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi, with bends and chutes;

  And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri;*

  The CONTINENT—devoting the whole identity, without reserving an atom,

  Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all, and the yield of all.

  BANNER AND PENNANT

  Aye all! for ever, for all!

  From sea to sea, north and south, east and west,

  Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole;

  No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound,

  But, out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more,

  Croaking like crows here in the wind.

  POET (Finale)

  My limbs, my veins dilate;

  The blood of the world has fill’d me full—my theme is clear at last:

  —Banner so broad, advancing out of the night, I sing you haughty and resolute;

  I burst through where I waited long, too long, deafen’d and blinded;

  My sight, my hearing and tongue, are come to me, (a little child taught me;)*

  I hear from above, O pennant of war, your ironical call and demand;

  Insensate! insensate! (yet I at any rate chant you,) O banner!

  Not houses of peace are you, nor any nor all their prosperity, (if need be, you shall have every one of those houses to destroy them;

  You thought not to destroy those valuable houses, standing fast, full of comfort, built with money;

  May they stand fast, then? Not an hour, unless you, above them and all, stand fast;)

  —O banner! not money so precious are you, nor farm produce you, nor the material good nutriment,

  Nor excellent stores, nor landed on wharves from the ships;

  Not the superb ships, with sail-power or steam-power, fetching and carrying cargoes,

  Nor machinery, vehicles, trade, nor revenues,—But you, as henceforth I see you,

  Running up out of the night, bringing your cluster of stars, (ever-enlarging stars;)

  Divider of day-break you, cutting the air, touch’d by the sun, measuring the sky,

  (Passionately seen and yearn’d for by one poor little child,

  While others remain busy, or smartly talking, forever teaching thrift, thrift;)

  O you up there! O pennant! where you undulate like a snake, hissing so curious,*

  Out of reach—an idea only—yet furiously fought for, risking bloody death—loved by me!

  So loved! O you banner leading the day, with stars brought from the night!

  Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all—O banner and pennant!*

  I too leave the rest—great as it is, it is nothing—houses, machines are nothing—I see them not;

  I see but you, O warlike pennant! O banner so broad, with stripes, I sing you only,

  Flapping up there in the wind.

  By the bivouac’s fitful flame

  By the bivouac’s fitful flame,

  A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;—but first I note,

  The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,

  The darkness, lit spots of kindled fire—the silence;

  Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving;*

  The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me;)

  While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wond’rous thoughts,

  Of life and death—of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;

  A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,*

  By the bivouac’s fitful flame.

  1861

  Arm’d year! year of the struggle!

  No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year!

  Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas piano;

  But as a strong man, erect, clothed in
blue clothes, advancing, carrying a rifle on your shoulder,

  With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands—with a knife in the belt at your side,

  As I heard you shouting loud—your sonorous voice ringing across the continent;

  Your masculine voice, O year, as rising amid the great cities,*

  Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the workmen, the dwellers in Manhattan;

  Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and Indiana,

  Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and descending the Alleghanies;

  Or down from the great lakes, or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along the Ohio river;

  Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at Chattanooga on the mountain top,

  Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs, clothed in blue, bearing weapons, robust year;

  Heard your determin’d voice, launch’d forth again and again;

  Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round lipp’d cannon,

  I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

  From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird

  From Paumanok starting, I fly like a bird,*

  Around and around to soar, to sing the idea of all;

  To the north betaking myself, to sing there arctic songs,

  To Kanada, ’till I absorb Kanada in myself—to Michigan then,*

  To Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota, to sing their songs, (they are inimitable;)

  Then to Ohio and Indiana to sing theirs—to Missouri and Kansas and Arkansas to sing theirs,

  To Tennessee and Kentucky—to the Carolinas and Georgia, to sing theirs,

  To Texas, and so along up toward California, to roam accepted everywhere;

  To sing first, (to the tap of the war-drum, if need be,)

  The idea of all—of the western world, one and inseparable,

  And then the song of each member of These States.

  Beginning my studies

  Beginning my studies, the first step pleas’d me so much,

  The mere fact, consciousness—these forms—the power of motion,

  The least insect or animal—the senses—eyesight;

  The first step, I say, aw’d me and pleas’d me so much,

  I have never gone, and never wish’d to go, any farther,

  But stop and loiter all my life, to sing it in extatic songs.

  The Centenarian’s Story

  VOLUNTEER OF 1861,

  (at Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian)*

  Give me your hand, old Revolutionary;

  The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;)

  Up the path you have follow’d me well, spite of your hundred and extra years;

  You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done;

  Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me.

  Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means;

  On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising;

  There is the camp—one regiment departs to morrow;

  Do you hear the officers giving the orders?

  Do you hear the clank of the muskets?

  Why, what comes over you now, old man?

  Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively?

  The troops are but drilling—they are yet surrounded with smiles;

  Around them at hand, the well drest friends and the women;

  While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down;

  Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze,

  O’er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between.

  But drill and parade are over—they march back to quarters;

  Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping!

  As wending, the crowds now part and disperse—but we, old man,

  Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must remain;

  You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell.

  THE CENTENARIAN

  When I clutch’d your hand, it was not with terror;

  But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side,

  And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran,

  And where tents are pitch’d, and wherever you see, south and south-east and south-west,

  Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods,

  And along the shores, in mire (now fill’d over,) came again, and suddenly raged,

  As eighty-five years a-gone, no mere parade receiv’d with applause of friends,

  But a battle, which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it,

  Walking then this hill-top, this same ground.

  Aye, this is the ground;

  My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves:*

  The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear:

  Rude forts appear again, the old hoop’d guns are mounted;*

  I see the lines of rais’d earth stretching from river to bay;*

  I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes:

  Here we lay encamp’d—it was this time in summer also.

  As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declaration:

  It was read here—the whole army paraded—it was read to us here;

  By his staff surrounded, the general stood in the middle—he held up his unsheath’d sword,*

  It glitter’d in the sun in full sight of the army.

  ’Twas a bold act then;

  The English war ships had just arrived—the king had sent them from over the sea;

  We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,

  And the transports, swarming with soldiers.

  A few days more, and they landed—and then the battle.

  Twenty thousand were brought against us,

  A veteran force, furnish’d with good artillery.

  I tell not now the whole of the battle;

  But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order’d forward to engage the red-coats;

  Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march’d,

  And how long and how well it stood, confronting death.

  Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death?

  It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,

  Rais’d in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the General.*

  Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus’ waters;*

  Till of a sudden, unlook’d for, by defiles through the woods, gain’d at night,

  The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns,

  That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy’s mercy.

  The General watch’d them from this hill;

  They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment;

  Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle;

  But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them!

  It sickens me yet, that slaughter!

  I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General;

  I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish.

  Meanwhile the British maneuver’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle;

  But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle.

  We fought the fight in detachments;

  Sallying forth, we fought at several points—but in each the luck was against us;

  Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back to the works on this hill;

  Till we turn’d menacing, here, and then he left us.

  That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong;

  Few return’d—nearly all remain in Brooklyn.

  That, and here, my General’s first battle;

  No women looking on, nor
sunshine to bask in—it did not conclude with applause;

  Nobody clapp’d hands here then.

  But in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill rain,

  Wearied that night we lay, foil’d and sullen;

  While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord, off against us encamp’d,

  Quite within hearing, feasting, klinking wine-glasses together over their victory.

  So, dull and damp and another day;

  But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing,

  Silent as a ghost, while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated.

  I saw him at the river-side,

  Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embarcation;

  My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over;

  And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time.

  Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom;

  Many no doubt thought of capitulation.

  But when my General pass’d me,

  As he stood in his boat, and look’d toward the coming sun,

  I saw something different from capitulation.

  TERMINUS

  Enough—the Centenarian’s story ends;

  The two, the past and present, have interchanged;

  I myself, as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking.

  And is this the ground Washington trod?

  And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d,

  As resolute in defeat, as other generals in their proudest triumphs?

  It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good;

  I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward;

  I must preserve that look, as it beam’d on you, rivers of Brooklyn.

  See! as the annual round returns, the phantoms return;

  It is the 27th of August, and the British have landed;

  The battle begins, and goes against us—behold! through the smoke Washington’s face;

  The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept the enemy;

  They are cut off—murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them;

  Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag,

  Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds,

  In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears.

  Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners supposed;