Poems By Walt Whitman Part 18

1.

The last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath On the pavement here--and, there beyond, it is looking Down a new-made double grave.

2.

Lo! the moon ascending!

Up from the east, the silvery round moon; Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon; Immense and silent moon.

3.

I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles; All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, As with voices and with tears.

4.

I hear the great drums pounding, And the small drums steady whirring; And every blow of the great convulsive drums Strikes me through and through.

5.

For the son is brought with the father; In the foremost ranks of the fierce a.s.sault they fell; Two veterans, son and father, dropped together, And the double grave awaits them.

6.

Now nearer blow the bugles, And the drums strike more convulsive; And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

7.

In the eastern sky up-buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, 'Tis some mother's large, transparent face, In heaven brighter growing.

8.

O strong dead-march, you please me!

O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me!

O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, pa.s.sing to burial!

What I have I also give you.

9.

The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music; And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, My heart gives you love.

_SURVIVORS._

How solemn, as one by one, As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty--as the men file by where I stand; As the faces, the masks appear--as I glance at the faces, studying the masks; As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you are;-- How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to you!

I see, behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul.

O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend, Nor the bayonet stab what you really are.

--The soul, yourself, I see, great as any, good as the best, Waiting secure and content,--which the bullet could never kill, Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!

_HYMN OF DEAD SOLDIERS._

1.

One breath, O my silent soul!

A perfumed thought--no more I ask, for the sake of all dead soldiers.

2.

Buglers off in my armies!

At present I ask not you to sound; Not at the head of my cavalry, all on their spirited horses, With their sabres drawn and glistening, and carbines clanking by their thighs--(ah, my brave hors.e.m.e.n! My handsome, tan-faced hors.e.m.e.n!

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 m.u.f.fled beat for a burial; Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.

3.

But aside from these, and the crowd's hurrahs, and the land's congratulations, Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless, I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.

4.

Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet; Draw close, but speak not.

Phantoms, welcome, divine and tender!

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 now is over; But love is not over--and what love, O comrades!

Perfume from battlefields rising--up from foetor arising.

Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal love!

Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers.

Perfume all! make all wholesome!

O love! O chant! solve all with the last chemistry.