Give me to bathe the
memories
of all dead soldiers.
Whitman
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.
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.
Give me exhaustless--make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go,
For the sake of all dead soldiers.
_SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE. _
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 years 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;
While the muskets of the young men yet lean over their shoulders;
While I look on the bayonets bristling over their shoulders;
While 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, as 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!
