Drum-Taps

First Songs for a Prelude.

FIRST O Songs for a prelude,

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.

Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading,

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 clinch'd hand the pavement.

A shock electric, the night sustain'd it,

Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak 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,

The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the black

smith'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, 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,

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!)

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,

[mother, The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his (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 lightly over 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,

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.

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,

Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for

courtesies merely,

Put in something now besides powder and wadding.)

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.

Eighteen Sirty-One.

ARM'D year-year of the struggle,

No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you terrible year, Not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenzas

piano,

But as a strong man erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing,

carrying a rifle on your shoulder,

With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands, with a knife in the belt at your side,

As I heard you shouting loud, your sonorous voice ringing across

the continent,

Your masculine voice O year, as rising amid the great cities, Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you as one of the workmen, the dwellers in Manhattan,

Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and

Indiana,

Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait and descending the

Alleghanies,

Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along the Ohio river,

Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at

Chattanooga on the mountain top,

Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs clothed in blue,

bearing weapons, robust year,

Heard your determin'd voice launch'd forth again and again,
Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp'd

cannon,

I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

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!

[streets;

Over the traffic of cities-over the rumble of wheels in the Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,