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, clinking wine-glasses together over their victory.

So, dull and damp, and another day;

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

80

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 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.

90

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;

100

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.

110

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

Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin'd to me at sunrise with something besides the sun.

Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an encampment very old;
Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade.

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865.

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night:

When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd, with a look I shall never forget; One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground; Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;

Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my way;

Found you in death so cold, dear comrade-found your body, son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding ;)

Bared your face in the starlight-curious the scene-cool blew the moderate nightwind;

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading; Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night;

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh-Long, long I gazed;

10

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands; Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade-Not a tear, not a word;

Vigil of silence, love and death-vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;

Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living-I think we shall surely meet again;) Til at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet; 20 And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rudedug grave I deposited;

Ending my vigil strange with that-vigil of night and battlefield dim;
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;)
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain-vigil I never forget, how as day brighten❜d,
I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865.

THE DRESSER 1

1870

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;
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 hard-fought engagements, or sieges tremendous, what deepest remains?

2

O maidens and young men I love, and that love me,

10

What you ask of my days, those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls;
Soldier alert I arrive, after a long march, cover'd with sweat and dust;
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of suc-
cessful charge;

Enter the captur'd works. . . yet lo! like a swift-running river, they fade;

1 See footnote to "Drum-Taps," page 516. In Whitman's Prose Works, in this connection should be read "The Wound Dresser" and the pages from "Specimen Days" which cover his hospital experience.

Pass and are gone, they fade-I dwell not on soldiers' perils or soldiers' joys; (Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)

But in silence, in dreams' projections,

While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,

So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,

In nature's reverie sad, with hinged knees returning, I enter the doors-(while for you up there,

Whoever you are, follow me without noise, and be of strong heart.)

Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,

3

Where they lie on the ground, after the battle brought in;
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground;

Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof'd hospital;
To the long rows of cots, up and down, each side, I return;

To each and all, one after another. I draw near-not one do I miss;
An attendant follows, holding a tray-he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and blood, emptied and fill'd again.

I onward go, I stop,

With hinged knees and steady hand, to dress wounds;

I am firm with each-the pangs are sharp, yet unavoidable;

One turns to me his appealing eyes-(poor boy! I never knew you,

20

30

Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.)

4

On, on I go!-(open doors of time! open hospital doors!)

The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand, tear not the bandage away;)

The neck of the cavalry-man, with the bullet through and through, I examine; Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard; (Come, sweet death! be persuaded, O beautiful death!

In mercy come quickly.)

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,

I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood; Back on his pillow the soldier bends, with curv'd neck, and side-falling head; His eyes are closed, his face is pale, (he dares not look on the bloody stump, And has not yet look'd on it.)

I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep;

But a day or two more-for see, the frame all wasted already, and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.

I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet wound,

Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, While the attendant stands behind aside me, holding the tray and pail.

I am faithful, I do not give out;

The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,

These and more I dress with impassive hand-(yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)

Thus in silence, in dreams' projections,

5

Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;

The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,

I sit by the restless all the dark night-some are so young;
Some suffer so much I recall the experience sweet and sad;

(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested,
Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

60

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865.

GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN

1

Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling;
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;
Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows;

Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape;

Give me fresh corn and wheat-give me serene-moving animals, teaching content; Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars;

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturb'd;

Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman, of whom I should never tire; Give me a perfect child-give me, away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural, domestic life;

Give me to warble spontaneous songs, reliev'd, recluse by myself, for my own ears only;

10

Give me solitude-give me Nature-give me again, O Nature, your primal sanities! -These, demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack'd by the war-strife;)

These to procure, incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city;

Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking your streets,

Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time, refusing to give me up;

Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul-you give me forever faces; (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries;

I see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for.)

Keep your splendid, silent sun;

2

Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods;

Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards;
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the Ninth-month bees hum;

20

Give me faces and streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!

Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!

Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows! give me the streets of Manhattan! 1

Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching-give me the sound of the trumpets and drums!

(The soldiers in companies or regiments-some, starting away, flush'd and reckless; Some, their time up, returning, with thinn'd ranks-young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)

30

1 I realize that not Nature alone is great in her fields of freedom and the open air, in her storms, the shows of night and day, the mountains, forests, seas-but in the artificial, the work of man, too, is equally great-in this profusion of teeming humanity-in these ingenuities, goods, streets, houses, ships, these hurrying, feverish electric crowds of men, their complicated business genius (not least among the genuises) and all this mighty, many-threaded wealth concentrated here. (Whitman in his "Collect.")

-Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed with the black ships!
O such for me! O an intense life! O full to repletion, and varied!

The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!

The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torch-light procession!.

The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following; People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants;

Manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as now; The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the wounded;)

Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus-with varied chorus, and light of the sparkling eyes;

Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

40

First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865.

SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAY-BREAK

O a new song, a free song,

POET

Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer,

By the wind's voice and that of the drum,

By the banner's voice, and child's voice, and sea's voice, and father's voice,
Low on the ground and high in the air,

On the ground where father and child stand,

In the upward air where their eyes turn,

Where the banner at day-break is flapping.

Words! book-words! what are you?

Words no more, for hearken and see,

My song is there in the open air-and I must sing,

With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

I'll weave the chord and twine in,

Man's desire and babe's desire-I'll twine them in, I'll put in life;

I'll put the bayonet's flashing point-I'll let bullets and slugs whizz;

(As one carrying a symbol and menace, far into the future,

Crying with trumpet voice, Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!)
I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of joy;
Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete,

With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

Come up here, bard, bard;

Come up here, soul, soul;

Come up here, dear little child,

PENNANT

10

20

To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless light.

CHILD

Father, what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?
And what does it say to me all the while?

FATHER

Nothing, my babe, you see in the sky;

And nothing at all to you it says. But look you, my babe,

Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the money-shops opening; And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with goods:

30