Section 37

PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM.
First published in 1870.
Proup music of the storm !
Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies ! Strong hum of forest tree-tops! Wind of the mountains ! Personified dim shapes! you hidden orchestras !
You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert, Blending, with Nature’s rhythmus, all the tongues of nations ; You chords left us by vast composers! you choruses !
You formless, free, religious dances! you from the Orient!
356 LEAVES OF GRASS
You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts ;
You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry ! 10
Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls !
Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerless,
Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber--~Why have you seiz’d me?
2
Come forward, O my Soul, and let the rest retire ;
Listen—lose not—it is toward thee they tend ;
Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber,
For thee they sing and dance, O Soul.
A festival song !
The duet of the bridegroom and the bride—a marriage-march,
With lips of love, and hearts of lovers, fill’d to the brim with love ; 20
The red-flush’d cheeks, and perfumes—the cortege swarming, full of friendly faces, young and old,
To flutes’ clear notes, and sounding harps’ cantabile.
3
Now loud approaching drums !
Victoria ! see’st thou in powder-smoke the banners torn but fly- ing ? the rout of the baffled P
Hearest those shouts of a conquering army ?
(Ah, Soul, the sobs of women—the wounded groaning inagony,
The hiss and crackle of flames—the blacken’d ruins—the embers of cities,
The dirge and desolation of mankind. )
4
Now airs antique and medieval fill me !
I see and hear old harpers with their harps, at Welsh festi- vals : 30
I hear the minnesingers, singing their lays of love,
I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the feudal ages.
5 Now the great organ sounds, Tremulous—while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth,
PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM Ul) hg
On which arising, rest, and leaping forth, depend,
All shapes of beauty, grace and strength—all hues we know,
Green blades of grass, and warbling birds—children that gambol and play—the clouds of heaven above, )
The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not,
Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest—maternity of all the TEspis
And with it every instrument in multitudes, 40
The players playing—all the world’s musicians,
The solemn hymns and masses, rousing adoration,
All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals,
The measureless sweet vocalists of ages,
And for their solvent setting, Earth’s own diapason,
Of winds and woods and mighty ocean waves ;
A new composite orchestra—binder of years and climes—ten-fold renewer,
As of the far-back days the poets tell—the Paradiso, |
The straying thence, the separation long, but now the wandering done,
The journey done, the Journeyman come home, 50°
And Man and Art, with Nature fused again.
6
Tutti! for Earth and Heaven ! The Almighty Leader now for me, for once has signal’d with his wand.
The manly strophe of the husbands of the world, And all the wives responding.
The tongues of violins ! (1 think, O tongues, ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself ; This brooding, yearning heart, that cannot tell itself.)
Ah, from a little child,
Thou knowest, Soul, how to me all sounds became music; 60
My mother’s voice, in lullaby or hymn ;
(The voice—O tender voices—memory’s loving voices !
Last miracle of all—O dearest mother’s, sister’s, voices ;)
The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leav’d corn,
The measur’d sea-surf, beating on the sand,
35or | LEAVES OF GRASS
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,
The German airs of friendship, wine and love,
Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances—English warbles, Chansons of France, Scotch tunes—and o’er the rest, Italia’s peerless compositions.
Across the stage, with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion, Stalks Norma, brandishing the dagger in her hand.
I see poor crazed Lucia’s eyes’ unnatural gleam ; Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevell’d.
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, The clear, electric base and baritone of the world, The trombone duo—Libertad forever !
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 de- spair,
Song of the dying swan—Fernando’s heart is breaking.
Awaking from her woes at last, retriev’d Amina sings ; go 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, Sister of loftiest gods—Alboni’s self I hear. )
PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM 359
9 I hear those odes, symphonies, operas ; I hear in the Widéiam Teli, the music of an arous’d and angry people ; I hear Meyerbeer’s Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert; Gounod’s Faust, or Mozart’s Don Juan.
Io
I hear the dance-music of all nations,
The waltz, (some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss ; ) 100
The bolero, to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.
I see religious dances old and new,
I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,
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 hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.
I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other ; IIo
I see the Roman youth, to the shrill sound of flageolets, throw- ing 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 ; The sacred imperial hymns of China,
360 LEAVES OF GRASS
To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone ;)
Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina, 120
A band of bayaderes.
12
Now Asia, Africa leave me—Europe, seizing, inflates me ;
To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of i voices, Luther’s strong hymn, L7ne 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 Det, or Gloria in LExcelsis.
a3 Composers ! mighty maestros ! And you, sweet singers of old lands—Soprani! Tenori! Bassi! To you a new bard, carolling free in the west, Obeisant, sends his love. 130
(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
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, 140
Utter—pour in—for I would take them all.
I Then I woke softly, ; And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream, And questioning all those reminiscences—the tempest in its fury, And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,
ASHES OF SOLDIERS — 361
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 slumber- chamber,
Come, for I have found the clue I sought so long, 150
Let us go forth refresh’d amid the day,
Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real,
Nourish’d henceforth by our celestial dream.
And I said, moreover,
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 ; 160
But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee,
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,
Vou soldiers in the ranks—-you Volunteers, Who bravely fighting, silent fell,
Lo 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, Lo! the war resumes—again to my sense your shapes, And again the advance of armies.
362 LEAVES OF GRASS
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. ite)
Now sound no note, O trumpeters !*
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,’
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless, 20
The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,’
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! Follow me ever ! desert me not, while I live.
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. » 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,’?
ASHES OF SOLDIERS 363
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 is over and long gone ;} 30 But love is not over—and what love, O comrades ! Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from foetor arising.
Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride !?
Perfume all! make all wholesome ! Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,° O love! O chant ! solve all, fructify all* with the last chemistry.
Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist peren- nial dew,° 40
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.
5 IN MIDNIGHT SLEEP.
First published in “‘ When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d,”’ 1865-6, under title of “In Clouds Descending, in Midnight Sleep.”
I
In midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,°® Of the look at first of the mortally wounded—of that indescrib- able look ; Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide, I dream, I dream, I dream.
2
Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains ; Of skies, so beauteous after a storm—and at night the moon so
unearthly bright,
Drum-Taps reads ‘‘ Dearest comrades ! all is now over.’’
1 2 Line 35 added in 1870.
3 Line 37 added in 1870.
4
5 «like a moist perennial dew’’ added in 1870.
8 Lilacs reads ‘‘In clouds descending, in midnight sleep,’ etc.
364 LEAVES OF GRASS
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps, I dream, I dream, I dream.
3 Long, long have they pass’d'—faces and trenches and fields ; Where through the carnage I moved with a callous: composure or away from the fallen, Onward I sped at the time—But now of pes forms at night, I dream, I dream, I dream. Io
a»
CAMPS OF GREEN. First published in ‘‘ Drum-Taps,’’ 1865.
Nort alone those camps of white, O soldiers,
When, as order’d forward, after a long march,
Footsore and weary, soon as the light lessen’d, we halted for the night ;
Some of us so fatigued, carrying the gun and knapsack, dropping asleep in our tracks ;
Others pitching the little tents, and the fires lit up began to sparkle ;
Outposts of pickets posted, surrounding, alert through the dark,
And a word provided for countersign, careful for safety ;
Till to the call of the drummers at daybreak loudly beating the drums,
We rose up refresh’d, the night and sleep pass’d over, and re- sumed our journey,
Or proceeded to battle. 10
Lo! the camps of the tents of green,
Which the days of peace keep filling, and the days of war keep filling,
With a mystic army, (is it too order’d forward? is it too only halting awhile,
Till night and sleep pass over ?)
Now in those camps of green—in their tents dotting the world ; In the parents, children, husbands, wives, in them—in the old and young,
1 Lilacs reads ‘‘ Long have they pass’d, long lapsed—faces,’’ etc.
a
ASHES OF SOLDIERS 365
Riecping under the sunlight, sleeping under the A con- ery tent and silent there at last,
ae ,, behold the mighty bivouac-field, and waiting-camp of all,’
*Of corps and generals all, and the President over the corps and
generals all,
ind of each of us, O soldiers, and of each and all in the ranks
we fought, 20
here without hatred we shall all meet.)
For presently, O soldiers, we too camp in our place in the bivouac-camps of green ; a ut we need not provide for outposts, nor word for the counter- ‘ sign, or drummer to beat the morning drum.
&*
TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN.
First published in “‘ Drum-Taps,’’ 1865, ferden o title of ‘Do You Ask Dulcet Rhymes From
Dip you ask dulcet rhymes from me? Did you seek the civilian’s peaceful and languishing rhymes ? Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow ?* ‘hy I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to understand —nor am I now; I have been born of the same as the war was born ; The drum-corps’ harsh rattle is to me sweet music—lI love well the martial dirge, ith slow wail, and convulsive throb, leading the officer’s funeral : )* —wWhat to such as you, anyhow, such a poet as I ?—therefore leave my works, And go lull yourself with what you can understand—and with piano-tunes ;° For I lull nobody—and you will never understand me. 10
1 Drum-Taps reads ‘‘ of us and ours and all.’’ 2 Line 2 added in 1870.
3 Drum-Taps adds ‘to understand ?”’
4 Lines 5-6-7 added in 1870.
5 ¢¢ and with piano-tunes’’ added in 1870.
!
366 LEAVES OF GRASS
PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING, I HEARD THE MOTH OF- ALL,
First published in ‘‘ Drum-Taps,”’ 186s.
PENSIVE, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All,
Desperate, on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the batt fields gazing ;
(As the last gun ceased—but the scent of the powder-smo linger’d ;)?
As she call’d to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk’
Absorb them well, O my earth, she cried—I charge you, lose n my sons! lose not an atom ;
And you streams, absorb them well, taking their dear blood ;
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly,
And all you essences of soil and growth—and you, my river: depths ;
And you, mountain sides—and the woods where my dear chi dren’s blood, trickling, redden’d ;
And you trees, down in your roots, to bequeath to all futu trees, i
My dead absorb—my young men’s beautiful bodies absorb—an their precious, precious, precious blood ;
Which holding in trust for me, faithfully back again give m many a year hence,
In unseen essence and odor of surface and grass, centuries hence
In blowing airs from the fields, back again give me my darling: —give my immortal heroes ;
Exhale me them centuries hence—breathe me their breath—le not an atom be lost ;