dry on the shore-sands, helpless to move anywhere - nothing left but behave myself quiet, and while away the days yet assign'd, and discover if there is anything for the said grim a: a time-bang'd conch to be got at last out of inherited good spirits and primal buoyant centre-pulses down there deep somewhere within his gray-blurr'd old shell............ (Reader, you must a.. a little fun here for one reason there are too many of the f lowing poemets about death, &c., and for another the passing hours (July 5, 1890) are so sunny-fine. And old as I am I texi to-day almost a part of some frolicsome wave, or for sporting yet like a kid or kitten - probably a streak of physical admiss ment and perfection here and now. I believe I have it in me perennially anyhow.) Then behind all, the deep-down consolation (it is a glum ore, but I dare not be sorry for the fact of it in the past, nor refra:a from dwelling, even vaunting here at the end) that this late-years palsied old shorn and shell-fish condition of me is the indubitable outcome and growth, now near for 20 years along, of too overzealous, over-continued bodily and emotional excitement and action through the times of 1862, '3, 4 and 5, visiting and waiting on wounded and sick army volunteers, both sides, in campaigns or contests, or after them, or in hospitals or felds south of Washington City, or in that place and elsewhere — those hot, sad, wrenching times the army volunteers, a States, or North or South- the wounded, suffering, dyingthe exhausting, sweating summers, marches, battles, carnage those trenches hurriedly heap'd by the corpse-thousands, mainly unknown- Will the America of the future-will this vast rich Union ever realize what itself cost, back there after all? — those hecatombs of battle-deaths-Those times of which, O far-off reader, this whole book is indeed finally but a reminiscent memorial from thence by me to you? - GOOD-BYE MY FANCY. SAIL OUT FOR GOOD, EIDÓLON YACHT! HEAVE the anchor short! Raise main-sail and jib-steer forth, O little white-hull'd sloop, now speed on really deep waters, (I will not call it our concluding voyage, But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best, maturest ;) Depart, depart from solid earth-no more returning to these shores, Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending, Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities, gravitation, Sail out for good, eidólon yacht of me! LINGERING LAST DROPS. AND whence and why come you? We know not whence, (was the answer,) That we linger'd and lagg'd-but were wafted at last, and are now here, To make the passing shower's concluding drops. GOOD-BYE MY FANCY. GOOD-BYE* my fancy-(I had a word to say, But 'tis not quite the time-The best of any man's word or say, * Behind a Good-bye there lurks much of the salutation of another beginning to me, Development, Continuity, Immortality, Transformation, are the chiefest life-meanings of Nature and Humanity, and are the sine qua non of all facts, and each fact. Why do folks dwell so fondly on the last words, advice, appearance, of the departing? Those last words are not samples of the best, which involve vitality at its full, and balance, and perfect control and scope. But they are valuable beyond measure to confirm and endorse the varied train, facts, theories and faith of the whole preceding life. ON, ON THE SAME, YE JOCUND TWAIN! ON, on the same, ye jocund twain! My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years, Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in one-combining all, My single soul-aims, confirmations, failures, joys-Nor single soul alone, I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's -the trial great, the victory great, A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world, the ancient, medieval, Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeatshere at the west a voice triumphant-justifying all, A gladsome pealing cry-a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction; I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the best no sooner than the worst)-And now I chant old age, (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's, autumn's spread, I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses wintercool'd the same ;) As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love, Wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions, On, on, ye jocund twain! continue on the same! MY 71st YEAR. AFTER surmounting three-score and ten, With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows, My parents' deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of '63 and '4, As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or haply after battle, To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here, with vital voice, Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all. APPARITIONS. A VAGUE mist hanging 'round half the pages: (Sometimes how strange and clear to the soul, That all these solid things are indeed but apparitions, concepts, non-realities.) THE PALLID WREATH. SOMEHOW I cannot let it go yet, funeral though it is, With pink, blue, yellow, all blanch'd, and the white now gray and ashy, One wither'd rose put years ago for thee, dear friend; But I do not forget thee. Hast thou then faded? Is the odor exhaled? Are the colors, vitalities, dead? No, while memories subtly play-the past vivid as ever; For but last night I woke, and in that spectral ring.saw thee, So let the wreath hang still awhile within my eye-reach, AN ENDED DAY. THE Soothing sanity and blitheness of completion, *NOTE.-Summer country life.—Several years.-In my rambles and explorations I found a woody place near the creek, where for some reason the birds in happy mood seem'd to resort in unusual numbers. Especially at the beginning of the day, and again at the ending, I was sure to get there the most copious bird-concerts. I repair'd there frequently at sunrise-and also at sunset, or just before... Once the question arose in me: Which is the best singing, the first or the lattermost? The first always exhilarated, and perhaps seem'd more joyous and stronger; but I always felt the sunset or late afternoon sounds more penetrating and sweeter-seem'd to touch the soul-often the evening thrushes, two or three of them, responding and perhaps blending. Though I miss'd some of the mornings, I found myself getting to be quite strictly punctual at the evening utterances. ANOTHER NOTE.-" He went out with the tide and the sunset," was a phrase I heard from a surgeon describing an old sailor's death under peculiarly gentle conditions. During the Secession War, 1863 and '4, visiting the Army Hospitals around Washington, I form'd the habit, and continued it to the end, whenever the ebb or flood tide began the latter part of day, of punctually visiting those at that time populous wards of suffering men. Somehow (or I thought so) the effect of the hour was palpable. The badly wounded would get some ease, and would like to talk a little, or be talk'd to. Intellectual and emotional natures would be at their best : Deaths were always easier; medicines seem'd to have better effect when given then, and a lulling atmosphere would pervade the wards. Similar influences, similar circumstances and hours, day-close, after great battles, even with all their horrors. I had more than once the same expe. rience or the fields cover'd with fallen or dead. OLD AGE'S SHIP & CRAFTY DEATH'S. FROM east and west across the horizon's edge, Two mighty masterful vessels sailers steal upon us : But we 'll make race a-time upon the seas-a battle-contest yet bear lively there! (Our joys of strife and derring-do to the last!) Put on the old ship all her power to-day! Crowd top-sail, top-gallant and royal studding-sails, Out challenge and defiance-flags and flaunting pennants added As we take to the open-take to the deepest, freest waters. TO THE PENDING YEAR. HAVE I no weapon-word for theesome message brief and fierce ? (Have I fought out and done indeed the battle?) Is there no shot left, For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness? Nor for myself-my own rebellious self in thee? Down, down, proud gorge !-though choking thee; Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter; Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts. SHAKSPERE-BACON'S CIPHER. I DOUBT it not-then more, far more; In each old song bequeath'd-in every noble page or text, (Different something unreck'd before-some unsuspected author,) In every object, mountain, tree, and star-in every birth an! life, As part of each-evolv'd from each-meaning, behind the o tent, A mystic cipher waits infolded. LONG, LONG HENCE. AFTER a long, long course, hundreds of years, denials, Hopes, wishes, aspirations, ponderings, victories, myriads of readers, Coating, compassing, covering-after ages' and ages' encrus tations, Then only may these songs reach fruition. |