The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman - Walt Whitman

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YEARS OF THE MODERN

       O STAR OF FRANCE

       THOUGHTS

       BY BLUE ONTARIO'S SHORE

       EPILOGUE

       RISE O DAYS FROM YOUR FATHOMLESS DEEPS

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      Thick-sprinkled bunting! flag of stars!

       Long yet your road, fateful flag—long yet your road, and lined with bloody death,

       For the prize I see at issue at last is the world,

       All its ships and shores I see interwoven with your threads greedy banner;

       Dream'd again the flags of kings, highest borne, to flaunt unrival'd?

       O hasten flag of man—O with sure and steady step, passing highest flags of kings,

       Walk supreme to the heavens mighty symbol—run up above them all,

       Flag of stars! thick-sprinkled bunting!

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      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,

       Not 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.

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      City of ships!

       (O the black ships! O the fierce ships!

       O the beautiful sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!)

       City of the world! (for all races are here,

       All the lands of the earth make contributions here);

       City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!

       City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and out with eddies and foam!

       City of wharves and stores—city of tall façades of marble and iron!

       Proud and passionate city—mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!

       Spring up O city—not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!

       Fear not—submit to no models but your own, O city!

       Behold me—incarnate me as I have incarnated you!

      I have rejected nothing you offer'd me—whom you adopted I have adopted,

       Good or bad I never question you—I love all—I do not condemn anything,

       I chant and celebrate all that is yours—yet peace no more,

       In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine,

       War, red war is my song through your streets, O city!

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      A march in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown,

       A route through a heavy wood with muffled steps in the darkness,

       Our army foil'd with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating,

       Till after midnight glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted building,

       We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted building,

       'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads, now an impromptu hospital,

       Entering but for a minute I see a sight beyond all the pictures and poems ever made,

       Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and lamps,

       And by one great pitchy torch stationary with wild red flame and clouds of smoke,

       By these, crowds, groups of forms vaguely I see on the floor, some in the pews laid down,

       At my feet more distinctly a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of bleeding to death (he is shot in the abdomen),

       I stanch the blood temporarily (the youngster's face is white as a lily),

       Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene fain to absorb it all,

       Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, some of them dead,

       Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, the odour of blood,

       The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside also fill'd,

       Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the death-spasm sweating,

       An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls,

      

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