The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman - Уолт Уитмен

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down on the horses' backs,

      The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving;

      Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm,

      The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully,

      Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musket-barrels,

      The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the sunrise cannon and again at sunset,

      Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from the wharves

      (How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders!

      How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces and their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!)

      The blood of the city up—arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere,

      The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the public buildings and stores,

      The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his mother

      (Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain him),

      The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way,

      The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their favourites,

      The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along, rumble lightly over the stones

      (Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence,

      Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business);

      All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming,

      The hospital service, the lint, bandages, and medicines,

      The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest, no mere parade now;

      War! an arm'd race is advancing, the welcome for battle, no turning away;

      War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing to welcome it.

      Mannahatta a-march—and it's O to sing it well!

      It's O for a manly life in the camp.

      And the sturdy artillery

      The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns,

      Unlimber them! (No more as the past forty years for salutes for courtesies merely,

      Put in something now besides powder and wadding.)

      And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta,

      Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city,

      Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown'd amid all your children,

      But now you smile with joy exulting old Mannahatta.

      SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK

      Poet

      O a new song, a free song,

      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 the 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 daybreak 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.

      Pennant

      Come up here, bard, bard,

      Come up here, soul, soul,

      Come up here, dear little child,

      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;

      These, ah these, how valued and toil'd for these!

      How envied by all the earth!

      Poet

      Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high,

      On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels,

      On floats the wind over the breast of the sea setting in toward land,

      The great steady wind from west to west-by-south.

      Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters.

      But I am not the sea nor the red sun,

      I am not the wind with girlish laughter,

      Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which lashes,

      Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death,

      But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings,

      Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land,

      Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings,

      And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner and pennant,

      Aloft there flapping and flapping.

      Child

      O father it is alive—it is full of people—it has children,

      O now it seems to me it is talking to its children,

      I hear it—it talks to me—O it is wonderful!

      O it stretches—it spreads and runs so fast—O my father,

      It is so broad it covers the whole sky.

      Father

      Cease, cease, my foolish babe,

      What you are saying is sorrowful to me, much it displeases me;

      Behold with the rest again I say, behold not banners and pennants aloft,

      But the well-prepared pavements behold, and mark the solid-wall'd houses.

      Banner and Pennant

      Speak to the child O bard out of Manhattan,

      To our

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