* * * * *
"Our frigate takes fire,
The other asks if we demand quarter?
If our colors are struck and the fighting done?
"Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,
We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part
of the fighting.
* * * * *
"One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are
sinking.
"Serene stands the little captain,
He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,
His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.
Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us."
[Footnote: Whitman. "Song of Myself.">[
Read William Blake's description of the Bastille, in his recently printed poem on "The French Revolution":
"'Seest thou yonder dark castle, that moated around, keeps this city of
Paris in awe?
Go, command yonder tower, saying: "Bastille, depart! and take thy
shadowy course;
Overstep the dark river, thou terrible tower, and get thee up into the
country ten miles.
And thou black southern prison, move along the dusky road to Versailles;
there
Frown on the gardens—and, if it obey and depart, then the King will
disband
This war-breathing army; but, if it refuse, let the Nation's Assembly
thence learn
That this army of terrors, that prison of horrors, are the bands of the
murmuring kingdom."'
"Like the morning star arising above the black waves, when a shipwrecked
soul sighs for morning,
Thro' the ranks, silent, walk'd the Ambassador back to the Nation's
Assembly, and told
The unwelcome message. Silent they heard; then a thunder roll'd round
loud and louder;
Like pillars of ancient halls and ruins of times remote, they sat.
Like a voice from the dim pillars Mirabeau rose; the thunders subsided
away;
A rushing of wings around him was heard as he brighten'd, and cried out
aloud:
'Where is the General of the Nation?' The walls re-echo'd: 'Where is the
General of the Nation?'"
And here are passages made up exclusively of the rhythms and metres of verse, in broken or disguised patterns ("d" type):
"Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily—wretchedly—on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble, to a broken tune
(Once, O the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world."
[Footnote: W. E. Henley, "To James McNeill Whistler." ]