The twittering bird, the hawk's sharp scream, The wild-fowl's notes at night, as flying low, migrating north or south, The psalm in the country church, or mid the clustering trees, the open air camp-meeting, The fiddler in the tavern-the glee, the long-strung sailor-song, The lowing cattle, bleating sheep-the crowing cock at dawn. 70 8 All songs of current lands come sounding 'round me, Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances-English warbles, Across the stage, with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion, I see poor crazed Lucia's eyes' unnatural gleam; I see where Ernani, walking the bridal garden, 80 Amid the scent of night-roses, radiant, holding his bride by the hand, Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn. To crossing swords, and grey hairs bared to heaven, From Spanish chestnut trees' dense shade, By old and heavy convent walls, a wailing song, Song of lost love—the torch of youth and life quench'd in despair, Song of the dying swan-Fernando's heart is breaking. Awaking from her woes at last, retriev'd Amina sings; 90 Copious as stars, and glad as morning light, the torrents of her joy. (The teeming lady comes! The lustrious orb--Venus contralto-the blooming mother, 9 I hear those odes, symphonies, operas; I hear in the William Tell, the music of an arous'd and angry people; I hear Meyerbeer's Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert; ΙΟ I hear the dance-music of all nations, The waltz, (some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss ;) The bolero, to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets. I see religious dances old and new, I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre, 100 I see the Crusaders marching, bearing the cross on high, to the martial clang of cymbals ; I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspers'd with frantic shouts, as they spin around, turning always towards Mecca ; I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs; Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing, I hear them clapping their hands, as they bend their bodies, I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other; ΙΙΟ I see the Roman youth, to the shrill sound of flageolets, throwing and catching their weapons, As they fall on their knees, and rise again. I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling; I see the worshippers within, (nor form, nor sermon, argument, nor word, But silent, strange, devout-rais'd, glowing heads-extatic. faces.) II I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings, The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen ; To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone ;) Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina, 12 Now Asia, Africa leave me-Europe, seizing, inflates me; 120 To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of voices, Luther's strong hymn, Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott; Rossini's Stabat Mater dolorosa; Or, floating in some high cathedral dim, with gorgeous color'd windows, The passionate Agnus Dei, or Gloria in Excelsis. Composers! mighty maestros! 13 And you, sweet singers of old lands-Soprani! Tenori! Bassi ! To you a new bard, carolling free in the west, Obeisant, sends his love. (Such led to thee, O Soul! All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee, But now, it seems to me, sound leads o'er all the rest.) 14 130 I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul's Cathedral ; Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, oratorios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn ; The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me. Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,) Fill me with all the voices of the universe, Endow me with their throbbings-Nature's also, The tempests, waters, winds-operas and chants-marches and dances, Utter-pour in-for I would take them all. Then I woke softly, 15 And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream, 140 And questioning all those reminiscences-the tempest in its fury, And all the songs of sopranos and tenors, And those rapt oriental dances, of religious fervor, And the sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organs, And all the artless plaints of love, and grief and death, I said to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumberchamber, Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long, Let us go forth refresh'd amid the day, Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real, And I said, moreover, 150 Haply, what thou hast heard, O Soul, was not the sound of winds, Nor dream of raging storm, nor sea-hawk's flapping wings, nor harsh scream, Nor vocalism of sun-bright Italy, Nor German organ majestic-nor vast concourse of voices-nor layers of harmonies; Nor strophes of husbands and wives-nor sound of marching soldiers, Nor flutes, nor harps, nor the bugle-calls of camps; But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee, 160 Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten, Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write. ASHES OF SOLDIERS. Again a verse for sake of you, You soldiers in the ranks-you Volunteers, Who bravely fighting, silent fell, To fill unmention' d graves. ASHES OF SOLDIERS. First published in "Drum-Taps," 1865, under title of "Hymn of Dead Soldiers." ASHES of soldiers! As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought, Noiseless as mists and vapors, From their graves in the trenches ascending, From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee, From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves, In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they come, And silently gather round me. Now sound no note, O trumpeters !1 ΙΟ Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses, With sabres drawn and glist'ning, 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,2 Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless, 20 The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,3 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! 1 Introduction and lines 1-11 added in 1870. Drum-Taps reads: "One breath, O my silent soul, A perfum'd thought-no more I ask for the sake of all dead soldiers. Buglers off in my armies! At present I ask not you to sound." Then follows line 12. 2 Drum-Taps reads "But aside from these, and the crowd's hurrahs and the land's congratulations." 3 Line 21 added in 1870. * Drum-Taps reads "Phantoms, welcome, divine and tender." |