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diff --git a/old/60505-0.txt b/old/60505-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d4441a7..0000000 --- a/old/60505-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1748 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Memories of Lincoln, by Walt Whitman - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Memories of Lincoln - -Author: Walt Whitman - -Release Date: October 18, 2019 [EBook #60505] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORIES OF LINCOLN *** - - - - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by Hathi Trust.) - - - - - -TEN CENT POCKET SERIES NO. 351 - -Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius - -MEMORIES OF LINCOLN - -WALT WHITMAN - -HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY - -GIRARD, KANSAS - - - - -CONTENTS -FORWARD -I. WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D -II. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! -III. HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TODAY -IV. THIS DUST WAS ONCE THE MAN -LYRICS OF THE WAR -BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! -COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER -THE WOUND-DRESSER -SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE -ASHES OF SOLDIERS -PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING -CAMPS OF GREEN - - - - -He knew to bide his time, -And can his fame abide, -Still patient in his simple faith sublime, -Till the wise years decide. -Great captains, with their guns and drums. -Disturb our judgment for the hour, -But at last silence comes; -These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, -Our children shall behold his fame. -The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, -Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, -New birth of our new soil, the first American. - - -JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL - - - - -FOREWORD - - -Whitman did not subject Lincoln to the literary but to the human motive. -Lincoln does not become a literary figure by his touch. Does not become -a man in a book. After Whitman is done with him Lincoln still remains -Lincoln. No way reduced. No way aggrandized. Only better understood. His -background does not become a book. His background remains what it was. -Remains life. Generic life. As life is where life finds life at the -root. I may let Whitman put in a word for himself. Whitman said to me of -Lincoln: - -"Lincoln is particularly my man--particularly belongs to me; yes, and by -the same taken I am Lincoln's man: I guess I particularly belong to him: -we are afloat in the same stream--we are rooted in the same ground." - -To know the Lincoln of Whitman you want to know the Whitman of Whitman. -Whitman was literary. But he was not first of all literary. Or last of -all literary. First of all he was human. He was not the leaves of a -book. He was the bone and flesh of a man. Yes, he was that something or -other not bone or flesh which is also of a man--which finally is the -man. Simply literary analysis can make little out of Whitman. He does -not yield to the scalpel. He is not to be resurrected from an inkpot. -His voice falls in with the prophet voices. He was not unlettered. He -knew the alphabet. But he kept all alphabetical, arrogance well in hand. -The letter was kept in hand. The spirit was left free. You cannot buy a -ticket for Athens or Weimar or Paris or London or Boston and reach -Whitman. He is never reached in that circle. The literary centers do not -lead to him. You have got to travel to him by another route. You go East -and find the Buddhistic canticles. You consult the Zoroastrian avatars. -And you take the word of Jesus for a great deal. And you may hit -Socrates on the way. And you keep on with your journey, touching here -and there in European history certain men, certain influences. Going -into port now and then. Never going where men compete for literary -judgment. Never where men set out to acquit themselves immortally as -artists. Keeping forever close to the careless rhythms of original -causes. So you go on. And go on. And by and by you arrive at Whitman. -Not by way of the university. Not by way of Shakespeare. Not by way of -the literary experts and adepts. But by human ways. To try to find -Whitman by way of Shakespeare or Molière would be hopeless. I do not -disparage the other routes to other men. I am only describing this route -to Whitman. This route, which is the only route. Whitman chants and -prays and soars. He Is not pretty. He is only beautiful. He is not -beautiful with the beauty of beauty. He is beautiful with the beauty of -truth. The pen can easily miss Whitman. But the heart reaches him -direct. Whitman is therefore the best route to Lincoln. The same process -which provides Whitman for you provided Lincoln for. Whitman. Whitman -said to me again about Lincoln: - -"There was no reason why Lincoln should not have been a prophet rather -than a politician; he was in fact a divine prophet-politician; in him -for almost the first time prophecy had something to say in politics. I -shouldn't wonder but that in another age of the world Lincoln would have -been a chosen man to lead in some rebellion against ecclesiastical -institutions and religious form and ceremony." - - -HORACE TRAUBEL - - - - -The main effect of this poem is of strong solemn, and varied music; and -it involves in its construction a principle after which perhaps the -great composers most work--namely, spiritual auricular analogy. At first -it would seem to defy analysis, so rapt is it, and so indirect. No -reference whatever is made to the mere fact of Lincoln's death; the poet -does not even dwell upon its unprovoked atrocity, and only occasionally -is the tone that of lamentation; but, with the intuitions of the grand -art, which is the most complex when it seems most simple, he seizes upon -three beautiful facts of nature, which he weaves into a wreath for the -dead President's tomb. The central thought is of death, but around this -he curiously twines, first, the early-blooming lilacs which the poet may -have plucked the day the dark shadow came; next the song of the hermit -thrush, the most sweet and solemn of all our songsters, heard at -twilight in the dusky cedars; and with these the evening star, which, as -many may remember, night after night in the early part of that eventful -spring, hung low in the west with unusual and tender brightness. These -are the premises whence he starts his solemn chant. - -The attitude, therefore, is not that of being bowed down and weeping -hopeless tears, but of singing a commemorative hymn, in which the voices -of nature join, and fits that exalted condition of the soul which -serious events and the presence of death induce. - - -JOHN BURROUGHS - - - - -I. WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D - - -1 - - -When lilacs last in the dooryard -bloom'd, -And the great star early droop'd in the -western sky in the night, -I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with -ever-returning spring. -Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to -me you bring, -Lilac blooming perennial and drooping -star in the west, -And thought of him I love. - - - - -2 - - -O powerful western fallen star! -O shades of night--O moody, tearful -night! -O great star disappear'd--O the black -murk that hides the star! -O cruel hands that hold me powerless-- -O helpless soul of me! -O harsh surrounding cloud that will not -free my soul. - - - - -3 - - -In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse -near the white-wash'd -palings, -Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with -heart-shaped leaves of rich green, -With many a pointed blossom rising -delicate, with the perfume strong -I love, -With every leaf a miracle--and from -this bush in the dooryard, -With delicate-color'd blossoms and -heart-shaped leaves of rich green, -A sprig with its flower I break. - - - - -4 - - -In the swamp in secluded recesses, -A shy and hidden bird is warbling a -song. - -Solitary the thrush, -The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding -the settlements, -Sings by himself a song. - -Song of the bleeding throat, -Death's outlet song of life, (for well -dear brother I know, -If thou wast not granted to sing thou -would'st surely die.) - - - - -5 - - -Over the breast of the spring, the land, -amid cities, -Amid lanes and through old woods, -where lately the violets peep'd -from the ground, spotting the -gray debris, -Amid the grass in the fields each side of -the lanes, passing the endless -grass, -Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every -grain from its shroud in the -dark-brown fields uprisen, -Passing the apple-tree blows of white -and pink in the orchards, -Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest -in the grave, -Night and day journeys a coffin. - - - - -6 - - -Coffin that passes through lanes and -streets, -Through day and night with the great -cloud darkening the land, -With the pomp of the inloop'd flags -with the cities draped in black, -With the show of the States themselves -as of crape-veil'd women standing, -With processions long and winding and -the flambeaus of the night, -With the countless torches lit, with the -silent sea of faces and the unbared -heads, -With the waiting depot, the arriving -coffin, and the sombre faces, -With dirges through the night, with the -thousand voices rising strong -and solemn, -With all the mournful voices of the -dirges pour'd around the coffin, -The dim-lit churches and the shuddering -organs--where amid these you -journey, -With the tolling, tolling bell's perpetual -clang, -Here, coffin that slowly passes, -I give you my sprig of lilac. - - - - -7 - - -(Nor for you, for one alone, -Blossoms and branches green to coffins -all I bring, -For fresh as the morning, thus would -I chant a song for you O sane -and sacred death. -All over bouquets of roses, -O death, I cover you over with roses and -early lilies, -But mostly and now the lilac that -blooms the first, -Copious I break, I break the sprigs -from the bushes, -With loaded arms I come, pouring for -you, -For you and the coffins all of you O -death.) - - - - -8 - - -O western orb sailing the heaven, -Now I know what you must have meant -as a month since I walk'd, -As I walk'd in silence the transparent -shadowy night, -As I saw you had something to tell as -you bent to me night after night, -As you droop'd from the sky low down -as if to my side, (while the other -stars all look'd on,) -As we wander'd together the solemn -night, (for something I know -not what kept me from sleep,) -As the night advanced, and I saw on the -rim of the west how full you -were of woe, -As I stood on the rising ground in the -breeze in the cool transparent -night, -As I watch'd where you pass'd and was -lost in the netherward black of -the night, -As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied -sank, as where you sad orb. -Concluded, dropt in the night, and was -gone. - - - - -9 - - -Sing on there in the swamp, -O singer bashful and tender, I hear your -notes, I hear your call, -I hear, I come presently, I understand -you, -But a moment I linger, for the lustrous -star has detain'd me, -The star my departing comrade holds -and detains me. - - - - -10 - - -O how shall I warble myself for the -dead one there I loved? -And how shall I deck my song for the -large sweet soul that has gone? -And what shall my perfume be for the -grave of him I love? - -Sea-winds blown from east and west, -Blown from the Eastern sea and blown -from the Western sea, till there -on the prairies meeting, -These and with these and the breath of -my chant, -I'll perfume the grave of him I love. - - - - -11 - - -O what shall I hang on the chamber -walls? -And what shall the pictures be that I -hang on the walls, -To adorn the burial-house of him I -love? - -Pictures of growing spring and farms -and homes, -With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, -and the gray smoke lucid and -bright, -With floods of the yellow gold of the -gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, -burning, expanding the air, -With the fresh sweet herbage under -foot, and the pale green leaves -of the trees prolific, -In the distance the flowing glaze, the -breast of the river, with a wind-dapple -here and there, -With ranging hills on the banks, with -many a line against the sky, and -shadows, -And the city at hand with dwellings so -dense, and stacks of chimneys, -And all the scenes of life and the workshops, -and the workmen homeward -returning. - - - - -12 - - -Lo, body and soul--this land, -My own Manhattan with spires, and -the sparkling and hurrying tides, -and the ships, -The varied and ample land, the South -and the North in the light, Ohio's -shores and flashing Missouri, -And ever the far-spreading prairies -cover'd with grass and corn. - -Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and -haughty, -The violet and purple morn with just-felt -breezes, -The gentle soft-born measureless light. -The miracle spreading bathing all, the -fulfill'd noon, -The coming eve delicious, the welcome -night and the stars, -Over my cities shining all, enveloping -man and land. - - - - -13 - - -Song on, sing on you gray-brown bird, -Sing from the swamps, the recesses, -pour your chant from the bushes, -Limitless out of the dusk, out of the -cedars and pines. -Sing on dearest brother, warble your -reedy song, -Loud human song, with voice of uttermost -woe. - -O liquid and free and tender! -O wild and loose to my soul--O wondrous -singer! -You only I hear--yet the star holds me, -(but will soon depart,) -Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds -me. - - - - -14 - - -Now while I sat in the day and look'd -forth, -In the close of the day with its light -and the fields of spring, and the -farmers preparing their crops, -In the large unconscious scenery of my -land with its lakes and forests, -In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after -the perturb'd winds and the -storms,) -Under the arching heavens of the afternoon -swift passing, and the -voices of children and women, -The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw -the ships how they sail'd, -And the summer approaching with -richness, and the fields all busy -with labor, -And the infinite separate houses, how -they all went on, each with its -meals and minutia of daily -usages, -And the streets how their throbbings -throbb'd, and the cities pent--lo, -then and there, -Falling upon them all and among them -all, enveloping me with the rest, -Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long -black trail, -And I knew death, its thought, and the -sacred knowledge of death. - -Then with the knowledge of death as -walking one side of me, -And the thought of death close-walking -the other side of me, -And I in the middle as with companions, -and as holding the hands of -companions, -I fled forth to the hiding receiving night -that talks not, -Down to the shores of the water, the -path by the swamp in the dimness, -To the solemn shadowy cedars and -ghostly pines so still. - -And the singer so shy to the rest -receiv'd me, -The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd -us comrades three, -And he sang the carol of death, and a -verse for him I love. - -From deep secluded recesses, -From the fragrant cedars and the -ghostly pines so still, -Came the carol of the bird. - -And the charm of the carol rapt me, -As I held as if by their hands my comrades -in the night, -And the voice of my spirit tallied the -song of the bird. - -_Come lovely and soothing death, -Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, -arriving, -In the day, in the night, to all, to each, -Sooner or later delicate death._ - -_Prais'd be the fathomless universe, -For life and joy, and for objects and -knowledge curious, -And for love, sweet -praise! praise! -For the sure-enwinding arms of -cool-enfolding death. -Dark mother always gliding near with -soft feet, -Have none chanted for thee a chant of -fullest welcome? -Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee -above all, -I bring thee a song that when thou -must indeed come, come unfalteringly._ - -_Approach strong deliveress, -When it is so, when thou hast taken -them I joyously sing the dead, -Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, -Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death._ - -_From me to thee glad serenades, -Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, -adornments and feastings for -thee, -And the sights of the open landscape -and the high-spread sky are fitting, -And life and the fields, and the huge -and thoughtful night._ - -_The night in silence under many a star, -The ocean shore and the husky whispering -wave whose voice I know, -And the soul turning to thee O vast and -well-veil'd death, -And the body gratefully nestling close -to thee. -Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, -Over the rising and sinking leaves, over -the myriad fields and the prairies -wide, -Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the -teeming wharves and ways, -I float this carol with joy, with joy to -thee O death._ - - - - -15 - - -To the tally of my soul, -Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown -bird, -With pure deliberate notes spreading -filling the night. - -Loud in the pines and cedars dim, -Clear in the freshness moist and the -swamp-perfume, -And I with my comrades there in the -night. - -While my sight that was bound in my -eyes unclosed, -As to long panoramas of visions. - -And I saw askant the armies, -I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of -battle-flags, -Borne through the smoke of the battles -and pierc'd with missiles I saw -them, -And carried hither and yon through -the smoke, and torn and bloody, -And at last but a few shreds left on the -staffs, (and all in silence), -And the staffs all splinter'd and broken. - -I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, -And the white skeletons of young men, -I saw them, -I saw the debris and debris of all the -slain soldiers of the war, -But I saw they were not as was thought, -They themselves were fully at rest, they -suffer'd not, -The living remain'd and suffer'd, the -mother suffer'd, -And the wife and the child and the musing -comrade suffer'd, -And the armies that remain'd suffer'd. - - - - -16 - - -Passing the visions, passing the night, -Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' -hands, -Passing the song of the hermit bird and -the tallying song of my soul, -Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet -varying ever-altering song, -As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, -rising and falling, flooding the -night, -Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning -and warning, and yet again -bursting with joy, -Covering the earth and filling the -spread of the heaven, -As that powerful psalm in the night I -heard from recesses, -Passing, I leave thee lilac with -heart-shaped leaves, -I leave thee there in the dooryard, -blooming, returning with spring. - -I cease from my song for thee, -From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting -the west, communing with -thee, -O comrade lustrous with silver face in -the night. - -Yet each to keep and all, retrievements -out of the night, -The song, the wondrous chant of the -gray-brown bird, -And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd -in my soul, -With the lustrous and drooping star -with the countenance full of woe, -With the holders holding my hand nearing -the call of the bird, -Comrades mine and I in the midst, and -their memory ever to keep, for -the dead I loved so well, -For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my -days and lands--and this for his -dear sake, -Lilac and star and bird twined with the -chant of my soul, -There in the fragrant pines and the -cedars dusk and dim. - - - - -II. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! - - -O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip -is done, -The ship has weather'd every rack, the -prize we sought is won, -The port is near, the bells I hear, the -people all exulting, -While follow eyes the steady keel, the -vessel grim and daring; -But O heart! heart! heart! -O the bleeding drops of red, -Where on the deck my Captain -lies, -Fallen cold and dead. - -O Captain! My Captain! rise up and -hear the bells; -Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for -you the bugle trills, -For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths ---for you the shores a-crowding, -For you they call, the swaying mass, -their eager faces turning; -Here Captain! dear father! -This arm beneath your head! -It is some dream that on the -deck, -You've fallen cold and dead. - -My Captain does not answer, his lips are -pale and still, -My father does not feel my arm, he has -no pulse nor will, -The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its -voyage closed and done, -From fearful trip the victor ship comes -in with object won; -Exult O shores, and ring O bells! -But I with mournful tread, -Walk the deck my Captain lies, -Fallen cold and dead. - - - - -III. HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TODAY - - -(_May_ 4, 1865) - - -Hush'd be the camps to-day, -And soldiers let us drape our war-worn -weapons, -And each with musing soul retire to -celebrate, -Our dear commander's death. -No more for him life's stormy conflicts, -Nor victory, nor defeat--no more time's -dark events, -Charging like ceaseless clouds across -the sky. - -But sing poet in our name, -Sing of the love we bore him--because -you, dweller in camps, know it -truly. - -As they invault the coffin there, -Sing--as they close the doors of earth -upon him--one verse, -For the heavy hearts of soldiers. - - - - -IV. THIS DUST WAS ONCE THE MAN - - -This dust was once the man, -Gentle, plain, just and resolute, under -whose cautious hand, -Against the foulest crime in history -known in any land or age, -Was saved the Union of these States. - - - - -LYRICS OF THE WAR - - - - -BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! - - -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, -Nor 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. - - - - -COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER - - -Come up from the fields father, here's -a letter from our Pete, -And come to the front door mother, -here's a letter from thy dear son. - -Lo, 't is autumn, -Lo, where the trees, deeper green, -yellower and redder, -Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with -leaves fluttering in the moderate -wind, -Where apples ripe in the orchards hang -and grapes on the trellis'd vines, -(Smell you the smell of the grapes on -the vines? -Smell you the buckwheat where the bees -were lately buzzing?) -Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so -transparent after the rain, and with -wondrous clouds, -Below too, all calm, all vital and -beautiful, and the farm prospers well. - -Down in the fields all prospers well, -But now from the fields come father, -come at the daughter's call, -And come to the entry mother, to the -front door come right away. -Fast as she can she hurries, something -ominous, her steps trembling, -She does not tarry to smooth her hair -nor adjust her cap. -Open the envelope quickly, -O this is not our son's writing, yet his -name is sign'd, -O a strange hand writes for our dear -son, O stricken mother's soul! -All swims before her eyes, flashes with -black, she catches the main words -only, -Sentences broken, _gunshot wound in the -breast, cavalry skirmish, taken -to hospital, -At present low, but will soon be better._ - -Ah now the single figure to me, -Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with -all its cities and farms, -Sickly white in the face and dull in the -head, very faint, -By the jamb of a door leans. - -_Grieve not so, dear mother_, (the -justgrown daughter speaks through -her sobs, -The little sisters huddle around speechless -and dismay'd,) -_See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete -will soon be better._ -Alas poor boy, he will never be better, -(nor may-be needs to be better, -that brave and simple soul,) -While they stand at home at the door he -is dead already, -The only son is dead. - -But the mother needs to be better, -She with thin form presently drest in -black, -By day her meals untouch'd, then at -night fitfully sleeping, often -waking, -In the midnight waking, weeping, longing -with one deep longing, -O that she might withdraw unnoticed, -silent from life escape and -withdraw, -To follow, to seek, to be with her dear -dead son. - - - - -THE WOUND-DRESSER - - - - -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, -(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat -the alarum, and urge relentless -war, -But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face -droop'd and I resign'd myself, -To sit by the wounded and soothe them, -or silently watch the dead;) -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 har'd-fought engagements or sieges -tremendous what deepest -remains? - - - - -2 - - -O maidens and young men I love and -that love me, -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 -successful charge, -Enter the captur'd works--yet lo, like a -swift-running river they fade, -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, -With hinged knees returning I enter the -doors, (while for you up there, -Whoever you are, follow without noise -and be of strong heart.) -Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, -Straight and swift to my wounded I go, -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, -Yet I think I could not refuse this -moment to die for you, if that -would save you. - - - - -3 - - -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 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.) - - - - -4 - - -Thus in silence in dreams' projections, -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.) - - - - -SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE - - -(_Washington City_, 1865) - - -Spirit whose work is done--spirit of -dreadful hours! -Ere departing fade from my eyes your -forests of bayonets; -Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, -(yet onward ever unfaltering -pressing,) -Spirit of many a solemn day and many -a savage scene--electric spirit, -That with muttering voice through the -war now closed, like a tireless -phantom flitted, -Rousing the land with breath of flame, -while you beat and beat the drum, -Now as the sound of the drum, hollow -and harsh to the last, reverberates -round me, -As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, -return from the battles, -As the muskets of the young men yet -lean over their shoulders, -As I look on the bayonets bristling over -their shoulders, -As those slanted bayonets, whole forests -of them appearing in the distance, -approach and pass on, returning -homeward, -Moving with steady motion, swaying to -and fro to the right and left, -Evenly lightly rising and falling while -the steps keep time; -Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one -day, but pale as death next day, -Touch my mouth ere you depart, press -my lips close, -Leave me your pulses of rage--bequeath -them to me--fill me with currents -convulsive, -Let them scorch and blister out of my -chants when you are gone, -Let them identify you to the future in -these songs. - - - - -ASHES OF SOLDIERS - - -Ashes of soldiers South or North, -As I muse retrospective murmuring a -chant in thought, -The war resumes, again to my sense -your shapes, -And again the advance of the armies. - -Noiseless as mists and vapors, -From their graves in the trenches -ascending, -From cemeteries all through Virginia -and Tennessee, -From every point of the compass out of -the countless graves, -In wafted clouds, in myriads large, or -squads of twos or threes or single -ones they come, -And silently gather round me. - -Now sound no note O trumpeters, -Not at the head of my cavalry parading -on spirited horses, -With sabres drawn and glistening, and -carbines by their thighs, (ah my -brave horsemen! -My handsome tan-faced horsemen! what -life, what joy and pride, -With all the perils were yours.) - -Nor you drummers, neither at reveille -at dawn, -Nor the long roll alarming the camp, -nor even the muffled beat for a -burial, -Nothing from you this time O drummers -bearing my warlike drums. - -But aside from these and the marts of -wealth and the crowded promenade, -Admitting around me comrades close -unseen by the rest and voiceless, -The slain elate and alive again, the dust -and debris alive, -I chant this chant of my silent soul in -the name of all dead soldiers. - -Faces so pale with wondrous eyes, very -dear, gather closer yet, -Draw close, but speak not. - -Phantoms of countless lost, -Invisible to the rest henceforth become -my companions, -Follow me ever--desert me not while I -live. - -Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the -living--sweet are the musical -voices sounding, -But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead with -their silent eyes. -Dearest comrades, all is over and long -gone, -But love is not over--and what love, O -comrades! -Perfume from battle-fields rising, up -from the fœtor arising. - -Perfume therefore my chant, O love, -immortal love, -Give me to bathe the memories of all -dead soldiers, -Shroud them, embalm them, cover them -all over with tender pride. - -Perfume all--make all wholesome, -Make these ashes to nourish and -blossom, -O love, solve all, fructify all with the -last chemistry. - -Give me exhaustless, make me a -fountain, -That I exhale love from me wherever -I go like a moist perennial dew, -For the ashes of all dead soldiers South -or North. - - - - -PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING - - -Pensive on her dead gazing I heard the -Mother of All, -Desperate on the torn bodies, on the -forms covering the battle-fields -gazing, -(As the last gun ceased, but the scent -of the powder-smoke linger'd,) -As she call'd to her earth with mournful -voice while she stalk'd, -Absorb them well O my earth, she cried, -I charge you lose not my sons, -lose not an atom, -And you streams absorb them well, taking -their dear blood, -And you local spots, and you airs that -swim above lightly impalpable, -And all you essences of soil and growth, -and you my rivers' depths, -And you mountain sides, and the woods -where my dear children's blood -trickling redden'd, -And you trees down in your roots to bequeath -to all future trees. -My dead absorb or South or North--my -young men's bodies absorb, and -their precious, precious blood, -Which holding in trust for me faithfully -back again give me many -a year hence, -In unseen essence and odor of surface -and grass, centuries hence, -In blowing airs from the fields back -again give me my darlings, give -my immortal heroes, -Exhale me them centuries hence, -breathe me their breath, let not -an atom be lost, -O years and graves! O air and soil! O -my dead, an aroma sweet! -Exhale them perennial sweet death, -years, centuries hence. - - - - -CAMPS OF GREEN - - -Not alone those camps of white, old comrades -of the wars, -When as order'd forward, after a long -march, -Footsore and weary, soon as the light -lessens we halt for the night, -Some of us so fatigued carrying the gun -and knapsack, dropping asleep in -our tracks, -Others pitching the little tents, and the -fires lit up begin to sparkle, -Outposts of pickets posted surrounding -alert through the dark, -And a word provided for countersign, -careful for safety, -Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak -loudly beating the drums, -We rise up refresh'd, the night and sleep -pass'd over, and resume our journey, -Or proceed to battle. - -Lo, the camps of the tents of green, -Which the days of peace keep filling, -and the days of war keep filling, -With a mystic army, (is it too order'd -forward? is it too only halting -awhile, -Till night and sleep pass over?) - -Now in those camps of green, in their -tents dotting the world, -In the parents, children, husbands, -wives in them, in the old and -young, -Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping -under the moonlight, content and -silent there at last, -Behold the mighty bivouac-field and -waiting camp of all, -Of the corps and generals all, and the -President over the corps and generals -all, -And of each of us O soldiers, and of -each and all in the ranks we -fought, -(There without hatred we all, all meet.) - -For presently O soldiers, we too camp -in our place in the bivouac-camps -of green, -But we need not provide for outposts, -nor word for the countersign, -Nor drummer to beat the morning -drum. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Memories of Lincoln, by Walt Whitman - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEMORIES OF LINCOLN *** - -***** This file should be named 60505-0.txt or 60505-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/5/0/60505/ - -Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images -generously made available by Hathi Trust.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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