16
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,
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 dooryard,
blooming, returning with spring.
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.
Yet each to keep and all, retrievements
out of the night,
The song, the wondrous chant of the
gray-brown bird,
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 holders holding my hand nearing
the call of the bird,
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and
their memory ever to keep, for
the dead I loved so well,
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.
[II. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!]
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!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain
lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! My Captain! rise up and
hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for
you the bugle trills,
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,
You've fallen cold and dead.
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;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
[III. HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TODAY]
(May 4, 1865)
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,
Nor victory, nor defeat—no more time's
dark events,
Charging like ceaseless clouds across
the sky.
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,
Sing—as they close the doors of earth
upon him—one verse,
For the heavy hearts of soldiers.
[IV. 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.
[LYRICS OF THE WAR]
[BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!]
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles!
blow!
Through the windows—through doors
—burst like a ruthless force.
Into the solemn church, and scatter
the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is
studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no
happiness must he have now
with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace
ploughing his field or gathering
his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you
drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles!
blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble
of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night
in the houses? no sleepers must
sleep in those beds,
No bargainers' bargains by day—no
brokers or speculators—would
they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the
singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to
state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you
bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles!
blow!
Make no parley—stop for no
expostulation,
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper
or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the
young man,
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor
the mother's entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the
dead where they lie awaiting the
hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums
—so loud you bugles blow.
[COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER]
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, 't is 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
justgrown 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.
[THE WOUND-DRESSER]
1
An old man bending I come among new
faces,
Years looking backward resuming in
answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young
men and maidens that love me,
(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat
the alarum, and urge relentless
war,
But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face
droop'd and I resign'd myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them,
or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these
furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so
brave? the other was equally
brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest
armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous
what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest?
of curious panics,
Of har'd-fought engagements or sieges
tremendous what deepest
remains?