MYSELF AND MINE

Myself and mine gymnastic ever,

To stand the cold or heat-to take good aim with a gun-to sail a boat-to manage horses to beget superb children,

To speak readily and clearly-to feel at home among common people,

And to hold our own in terrible positions, on land and sea.

Not for an embroiderer;

(There will always be plenty of embroiderers-I welcome them also;)

But for the fibre of things, and for inherent men and women.

Not to chisel ornaments,

But to chisel with free stroke the heads and limbs of plenteous Supreme Gods, that The States may realize them, walking and talking.

Let me have my own way;

Let others promulge the laws-I will make no account of the laws;

Let others praise eminent men and hold up peace-I hold up agitation and conflict;

10

I praise no eminent man-I rebuke to his face the one that was thought most worthy.

(Who are you? you mean devil! And what are you secretly guilty of, all your life? Will you turn aside all your life? Will you grub and chatter all your life?)

(And who are you-blabbing by rote, years, pages, languages, reminiscences, Unwitting to-day that you do not know how to speak a single word?)

Let others finish specimens-I never finish specimens ;

I shower them by exhaustless laws, as Nature does, fresh and modern continually.

I give nothing as duties;

What others give as duties, I give as living impulses;

(Shall I give the heart's action as a duty?)

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Let others dispose of questions-I dispose of nothing-I arouse unanswerable questions;

Who are they I see and touch, and what about them?

What about these likes of myself, that draw me so close by tender directions and indirections?

I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemiesas I myself do;

I charge you, too, forever, reject those who would expound me-for I cannot expound myself;

I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me;

I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free.

After me, vista!

O, I see life is not short, but immeasurably long;

I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower,
Every hour the semen of centuries-and still of centuries.

I will follow up these continual lessons of the air, water, earth;

I perceive I have no time to lose.

30

DRUM-TAPS

Aroused and angry,

I 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. 1

First, O songs, for a prelude,

DRUM-TAPS
1

Lightly strike on the stretch'd 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.

2

Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading;

10

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,

Incens'd, struck with clench'd hand the pavement.

A shock electric-the night sustain'd it;

Till with ominous hum, our hive at day-break pour'd out its myriads.

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

To the drum-taps prompt,

The young men falling in and arming;

3

20

20

The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's hammer, tost aside with precipitation;)

The lawyer leaving his office, and arming-the judge leaving the court;

The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs;

The salesman leaving the store-the boss, the 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;

30

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!)

1 Whitman began his hospital service in December 1862, when his brother George was wounded at Fredericksburg. "Friends in New York and elsewhere supplied him with money for the work. Before the war closed he had made about six hundred hospital visits; cared, to a greater or less extent, for nearly one hundred thousand unfortunates; and expended many thousand dollars." -G. R. Carpenter's "Whitman," page 91.

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 favorites; The artillery-the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble ligh 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;

over 40

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.

4

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:

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Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for salutes for courtesies merely; Put in something else now besides powder and wadding.

5

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!

1865

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
1

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, plowing 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!

2

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;

ΤΟ

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.

3

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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First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865.

THE CENTENARIAN'S STORY 1

VOLUNTEER OF 1861-2.

(At Washington Park, Brooklyn, assisting the Centenarian.)

Give me your hand, old Revolutionary;

The hill-top is nigh-but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen ;)

Up the path you have follow'd me well, spite of your hundred and extra years; You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done;

Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me.

Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means;

On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising;

There is the camp-one regiment departs to-morrow;
Do you hear the officers giving the orders?

Do you hear the clank of the muskets?

Why, what comes over you now, old man?

Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively?
The troops are but drilling-they are yet surrounded with smiles;
Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women;
While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down;
Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze,
O'er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between.
But drill and parade are over-they march back to quarters;
Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping!

As wending, the crowds now part and disperse-but we, old man,
Not for nothing have I brought you hither-we must remain;
You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell.

THE CENTENARIAN

When I clutch'd your hand, it was not with terror;

But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side,

ΤΟ

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And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran, And where tents are pitch'd, and wherever you see, south and south-east and south-west,

Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods,

And along the shores, in mire (now fill'd over), came again, and suddenly raged, As eighty-five years agone, no mere parade receiv'd with applause of friends, But a battle, which I took part in myself-aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it, 30 Walking then this hill-top, this same ground.

Aye, this is the ground;

My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves;

1 Story of the Battle of Long Island, Aug. 27, 1776.

The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear;
Rude forts appear again, the old hoop'd guns are mounted;
I see the lines of rais'd earth stretching from river to bay;
I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes:
Here we lay encamp'd-it was this time in summer also.

As I talk, I remember all-I remember the Declaration;

It was read here-the whole army paraded-it was read to us here;

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By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the middle-he held up his unsheath'd sword,

It glitter'd in the sun in full sight of the army.

'Twas a bold act then;

The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had sent them from over the sea; We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,

And the transports, swarming with soldiers.

A few days more, and they landed-and then the battle.

Twenty thousand were brought against us,

A veteran force, furnish'd with good artillery.

I tell not now the whole of the battle;

But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order'd forward to engage the red-coats; Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march'd,

And how long and how well it stood, confronting death.

Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death?

It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,

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Rais'd in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the General.

Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus waters;
Till of a sudden, unlook'd for, by defiles through the woods, gain'd at night,
The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns,
That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy's mercy.

The General watch'd them from this hill;

They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment;
Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle;
But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them!

It sickens me yet, that slaughter!

I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General;

I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish.

Meanwhile the British manœuvr'd to draw us out for a pitch'd battle;

But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch'd battle.

We fought the fight in detachments;

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Sallying forth, we fought at several points-but in each the luck was against us; Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push'd us back to the works on this hill;

Till we turn'd, menacing, here, and then he left us.

That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong; Few return'd-nearly all remain in Brooklyn.