Chapter 9

Chapter 93,876 wordsPublic domain

When million-footed Manhattan, unpent, descends to its pavements; When the thunder-cracking guns arouse me with the proud roar I love; When the round-mouthed guns, out of the smoke and smell I love, spit their salutes; When the fire-flashing guns have fully alerted me--when heaven-clouds canopy my city with a delicate thin haze; When, gorgeous, the countless straight stems, the forests at the wharves, thicken with colours; When every ship, richly dressed, carries her flag at the peak; When pennants trail, and street-festoons hang from the windows; When Broadway is entirely given up to foot-passengers and foot-standers-- when the mass is densest; When the façades of the houses are alive with people--when eyes gaze, riveted, tens of thousands at a time; When the guests from the islands advance--when the pageant moves forward, visible; When the summons is made--when the answer, that waited thousands of years, answers; I too, arising, answering, descend to the pavements, merge with the crowd, and gaze with them.

Superb-faced Manhattan! Comrade Americanos!--to us, then, at last, the Orient comes. To us, my city, Where our tall-topped marble and iron beauties range on opposite sides--to walk in the space between, To-day our Antipodes comes.

The Originatress comes, The land of Paradise--land of the Caucasus--the nest of birth, The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments, With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes, The race of Brahma comes!

See, my cantabile! these, and more, are flashing to us from the procession; As it moves changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves changing before us.

Not the errand-bearing princes, nor the tanned Japanee only; Lithe and silent, the Hindoo appears--the whole Asiatic continent itself appears--the Past, the dead, The murky night-morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable, The enveloped mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees, The North--the sweltering South--Assyria--the Hebrews--the Ancient of ancients, Vast desolated cities--the gliding Present--all of these, and more, are in the pageant-procession.

Geography, the world, is in it; The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond; The coast you henceforth are facing--you Libertad! from your Western golden shores; The countries there, with their populations--the millions _en masse_, are curiously here; The swarming market-places--the temples, with idols ranged along the sides, or at the end--bronze, brahmin, and lama; The mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisherman; The singing-girl and the dancing-girl--the ecstatic person--the divine Buddha; The secluded Emperors--Confucius himself--the great poets and heroes--the warriors, the castes, all, Trooping up, crowding from all directions--from the Altay mountains, From Thibet--from the four winding and far-flowing rivers of China, From the Southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental islands--from Malaysia; These, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show forth to me, and are seized by me, And I am seized by them, and friendlily held by them, Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you.

For I too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this pageant; I am the chanter--I chant aloud over the pageant; I chant the world on my Western Sea; I chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in the sky; I chant the new empire, grander than any before--As in a vision it comes to me; I chant America, the Mistress--I chant a greater supremacy; I chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those groups of sea-islands; I chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archipelagoes; I chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind; I chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work--races reborn, refreshed; Lives, works, resumed--The object I know not--but the old, the Asiatic, resumed, as it must be, Commencing from this day, surrounded by the world.

And you, Libertad of the world! You shall sit in the middle, well-poised, thousands of years; As to-day, from one side, the Princes of Asia come to you; As to-morrow, from the other side, the Queen of England sends her eldest son to you.

The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed, The ring is circled, the journey is done; The box-lid is but perceptibly opened--nevertheless the perfume pours copiously out of the whole box.

Young Libertad! With the venerable Asia, the all-mother, Be considerate with her, now and ever, hot Libertad--for you are all; Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now sending messages over the archipelagoes to you: Bend your proud neck for once, young Libertad.

Were the children straying westward so long? so wide the tramping? Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from Paradise so long? Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while unknown, for you, for reasons? They are justified--they are accomplished--they shall now be turned the other way also, to travel toward you thence; They shall now also march obediently eastward, for your sake, Libertad.

_OLD IRELAND._

Far hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty, Crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mother, Once a queen--now lean and tattered, seated on the ground, Her old white hair drooping dishevelled round her shoulders; At her feet fallen an unused royal harp, Long silent--she too long silent--mourning her shrouded hope and heir; Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of love.

Yet a word, ancient mother; You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead between your knees; O you need not sit there, veiled in your old white hair, so dishevelled; For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave; It was an illusion--the heir, the son you love, was not really dead; The Lord is not dead--he is risen again, young and strong, in another country; Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the grave, What you wept for was translated, passed from the grave, The winds favoured, and the sea sailed it, And now, with rosy and new blood, Moves to-day in a new country.

_BOSTON TOWN._

To get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; Here's a good place at the corner--I must stand and see the show.

Clear the way there, Jonathan! Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon! Way for the Federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously tumbling.

I love to look on the stars and stripes--I hope the fifes will play "Yankee Doodle," How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.

A fog follows--antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.

Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoulders!

What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums? Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for firelocks, and level them?

If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President's marshal; If you groan such groans, you might baulk the government cannon.

For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white hair be; Here gape your great grandsons--their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well-dressed--see how orderly they conduct themselves.

Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

Retreat then! Pell-mell! To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! I do not think you belong here, anyhow.

But there is one thing that belongs here--shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?

I will whisper it to the Mayor--He shall send a committee to England; They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault--haste! Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey; Find a swift Yankee clipper--here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay.

Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government cannon, Fetch home the roarers from Congress,--make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons.

This centre-piece for them! Look, all orderly citizens! Look from the windows, women!

The committee open the box; set up the regal ribs; glue those that will not stay; Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.

You have got your revenge, old bluster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own.

Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan--you are a made man from this day; You are mighty 'cute--and here is one of your bargains.

_FRANCE, THE EIGHTEENTH YEAR OF THESE STATES._[1]

A great year and place; A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's heart closer than any yet.

I walked the shores of my Eastern Sea, Heard over the waves the little voice, Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings; Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running--nor from the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils; Was not so desperate at the battues of death--was not so shocked at the repeated fusillades of the guns.

Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution? Could I wish humanity different? Could I wish the people made of wood and stone? Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

O Liberty! O mate for me! Here too the blaze, the bullet, and the axe, in reserve to fetch them out in case of need, Here too, though long repressed, can never be destroyed; Here too could rise at last, murdering and ecstatic; Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.

Hence I sign this salute over the sea, And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism, But remember the little voice that I heard wailing--and wait with perfect trust, no matter how long; And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeathed cause, as for all lands, And I send these words to Paris with my love, And I guess some _chansonniers_ there will understand them, For I guess there is latent music yet in France--floods of it. O I hear already the bustle of instruments--they will soon be drowning all that would interrupt them; O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march, It reaches hither--it swells me to joyful madness, I will run transpose it in words, to justify it, I will yet sing a song for you, _ma femme!_

[Footnote 1: 1793-4---The great poet of Democracy is "not so shocked" at the great European year of Democracy.]

_EUROPE, THE SEVENTY-SECOND AND SEVENTY-THIRD YEARS OF THESE STATES._[1]

Suddenly, out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves, Like lightning it leaped forth, half startled at itself, Its feet upon the ashes and the rags--its hands tight to the throats of kings.

O hope and faith! O aching close of exiled patriots' lives! O many a sickened heart! Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.

And you, paid to defile the People! you liars, mark! Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts, For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity the poor man's wages, For many a promise sworn by royal lips, and broken, and laughed at in the breaking, Then in their power, not for all these did the blows strike revenge, or the heads of the nobles fall; The People scorned the ferocity of kings.

But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened rulers come back; Each comes in state with his train--hangman, priest, tax-gatherer, Soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant.

Yet behind all, lowering, stealing--lo, a Shape, Vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front, and form, in scarlet folds, Whose face and eyes none may see: Out of its robes only this--the red robes, lifted by the arm-- One finger crooked, pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.

Meanwhile, corpses lie in new-made graves--bloody corpses of young men; The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are flying, the creatures of power laugh aloud, And all these things bear fruits--and they are good.

Those corpses of young men, Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets--those hearts pierced by the grey lead, Cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with unslaughtered vitality.

They live in other young men, O kings! They live in brothers, again ready to defy you! They were purified by death--they were taught and exalted. Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom, in its turn to bear seed, Which the winds carry afar and resow, and the rains and the snows nourish.

Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose, But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counselling, cautioning.

Liberty! let others despair of you! I never despair of you.

Is the house shut? Is the master away? Nevertheless, be ready--be not weary of watching: He will soon return--his messengers come anon.

[Footnote 1: The years 1848 and 1849.]

_TO A FOILED REVOLTER OR REVOLTRESS._

Courage! my brother or my sister! Keep on! Liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs; That is nothing that is quelled by one or two failures, or any number of failures, Or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people, or by any unfaithfulness, Or the show of the tushes of power, soldiers, cannon, penal statutes.

What we believe in waits latent for ever through all the continents, and all the islands and archipelagoes of the sea.

What we believe in invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and light, is positive and composed, knows no discouragement, Waiting patiently, waiting its time.

The battle rages with many a loud alarm, and frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs--or supposes he triumphs, The prison, scaffold, garrote, handcuffs, iron necklace and anklet, lead- balls, do their work, The named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres, The great speakers and writers are exiled--they lie sick in distant lands, The cause is asleep--the strongest throats are still, choked with their own blood, The young men drop their eyelashes toward the ground when they meet; But, for all this, Liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the infidel entered into possession.

When Liberty goes out of a place, it is not the first to go, nor the second or third to go, It waits for all the rest to go--it is the last.

When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs, And when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged from any part of the earth, Then only shall Liberty be discharged from that part of the earth, And the infidel and the tyrant come into possession.

Then courage! revolter! revoltress! For till all ceases neither must you cease.

I do not know what you are for, (I do not know what I am for myself, nor what anything is for,) But I will search carefully for it even in being foiled, In defeat, poverty, imprisonment--for they too are great.

Did we think victory great? So it is--But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped, that defeat is great, And that death and dismay are great.

_DRUM TAPS._

_MANHATTAN ARMING._

First, O songs, for a prelude, Lightly strike on the stretched tympanum, pride and joy in my city, How she led the rest to arms--how she gave the cue, How at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang; O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel! How you sprang! how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand; How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead; How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of soldiers,) How Manhattan drum-taps led.

Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading; Forty years as a pageant--till unawares, the Lady of this teeming and turbulent city, Sleepless, amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, With her million children around her--suddenly, At dead of night, at news from the South, Incensed, struck with clenched hand the pavement.

A shock electric--the night sustained it; Till, with ominous hum, our hive at daybreak poured out its myriads.

From the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways, Leaped they tumultuous--and lo! Manhattan arming.

To the drum-taps prompt, The young men falling in and arming; The mechanics arming, the trowel, the jack-plane, the black-smith's hammer, tossed aside with precipitation; The lawyer leaving his office, and arming--the judge leaving the court; The driver deserting his waggon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs; The salesman leaving the store--the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving; Squads gathering everywhere by common consent, and arming; 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 armed sentries around--the sunrise cannon, and again at sunset; Armed 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 covered with dust! The blood of the city up--armed! armed! 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, unlimbered, to begin the red business! All the mutter of preparation--all the determined 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 armed race is advancing!--the welcome for battle--no turning away; War! be it weeks, months, or years--an armed 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 else now besides powder and wadding.

And you, Lady of Ships! you, Mannahatta! Old matron of the city! this proud, friendly, turbulent city! Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frowned amid all your children; But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta!

_1861._

Armed year! year of the struggle! No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year! Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas piano; But as a strong man, erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing, carrying a rifle on your shoulder, With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands--with a knife in the belt at your side, As I heard you shouting loud--your sonorous voice ringing across the continent; Your masculine voice, O year, as rising amid the great cities, Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you, as one of the workmen, the dwellers in Manhattan; Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and Indiana, Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and descending the Alleghanies; Or down from the great lakes, or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along the Ohio river; Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at Chattanooga on the mountain-top, Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs, clothed in blue, bearing weapons, robust year; Heard your determined voice, launched forth again and again; Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipped cannon, I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

_THE UPRISING._

Rise, O days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier and fiercer sweep! Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devoured what the earth gave me; Long I roamed the woods of the North--long I watched Niagara pouring; I travelled the prairies over, and slept on their breast--I crossed the Nevadas, I crossed the plateaus; I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sailed out to sea; I sailed through the storm, I was refreshed by the storm; I watched with joy the threatening maws of the waves; I marked the white combs where they careered so high, curling over; I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds; Saw from below what arose and mounted, (O superb! O wild as my heart, and powerful!) Heard the continuous thunder, as it bellowed after the lightning; Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning, as sudden and fast amid the din they chased each other across the sky; --These, and such as these, I, elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet pensive and masterful; All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me; Yet there with my soul I fed--I fed content, supercilious.

'Twas well, O soul! 'twas a good preparation you gave me! Now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill; Now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea never gave us; Not through the mighty woods we go, but through the mightier cities; Something for us is pouring now, more than Niagara pouring; Torrents of men, (sources and rills of the North-west, are you indeed inexhaustible?) What, to pavements and homesteads here--what were those storms of the mountains and sea? What, to passions I witness around me to-day, was the sea risen? Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black clouds?

Lo! from deeps more unfathomable, something more deadly and savage; Manhattan, rising, advancing with menacing front--Cincinnati, Chicago, unchained; --What was that swell I saw on the ocean? behold what comes here! How it climbs with daring feet and hands! how it dashes! How the true thunder bellows after the lightning! how bright the flashes of lightning! How DEMOCRACY with desperate vengeful port strides on, shown through the dark by those flashes of lightning! Yet a mournful wail and low sob I fancied I heard through the dark, In a lull of the deafening confusion.