The Walt Whitman Archive
Published Works
Books by Whitman
contents
| previous
| next
View Page
View Page 240
View Page 241
View Page 242
contents
| previous
| next
View Page
LEAVES OF GRASS.
A BOSTON BALLAD. (1854.)
| 1
To get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; |
| Here's a good place at the corner—I must stand and see the show. |
| 2 Clear the way there, Jonathan! |
| Way for the President's marshal! Way for the govern- ment cannon! |
| Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the appa- ritions copiously tumbling. |
| 3
I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle. |
| 4 How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! |
| Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. |
| 5 A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping, |
| Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear ban- daged and bloodless. |
| 6
Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! |
| The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! |
| Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! |
| Cock'd hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! |
| Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoul- ders! |
View Page 240
| 7
What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this clattering of bare gums? |
| Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for firelocks, and level them? |
| 8
If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President's marshal; |
| If you groan such groans, you might balk the govern- ment cannon. |
| 9
For shame old maniacs! Bring down those toss'd arms, and let your white hair be; |
| Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at them from the windows, |
| See how well dress'd—see how orderly they conduct themselves. |
| 10
Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you retreating? |
| Is this hour with the living too dead for you? |
| 11 Retreat then! Pell-mell! |
| To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! |
| I do not think you belong here, anyhow. |
| 12
But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston? |
| 13
I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a com- mittee to England; |
| They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste! |
| Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey; |
| Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, |
| Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay. |
| 14
Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government cannon, |
View Page 241
| Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons. |
| 15 This centre-piece for them: |
| Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women! |
| 16
The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay, |
| Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull. |
| 17
You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown has come to its own, and more than its own. |
| 18
Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day; |
| You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains. |
YEAR OF METEORS.
(1859–60.)
| YEAR of meteors! brooding year! |
| I would bind in words retrospective some of your deeds and signs; |
| I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad;. |
| I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the scaffold in Virginia; |
| (I was at hand—silent I stood, with teeth shut close—I watch'd; |
| I stood very near you, old man, when cool and indiffer- ent, but trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the scaffold;) |
| —I would sing in my copious song your census returns of The States, |
| The tables of population and products—I would sing of your ships and their cargoes, |
| 11 |
View Page 242
| The proud black ships of Manhattan, arriving, some fill'd with immigrants, some from the isthmus with cargoes of gold; |
| Songs thereof would I sing—to all that hitherward comes would I welcome give; |
| And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me, sweet boy of England! |
| Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds, as you pass'd with your cortege of nobles? |
| There in the crowds stood I, and singled you out with attachment; |
| I know not why, but I loved you…(and so go forth little song, |
| Far over sea speed like an arrow, carrying my love all folded, |
| And find in his palace the youth I love, and drop these lines at his feet;) |
| —Nor forget I to sing of the wonder, the ship as she swam up my bay, |
| Well-shaped and stately the Great Eastern swam up my bay, she was 600 feet long, |
| Her, moving swiftly, surrounded by myriads of small craft, I forget not to sing; |
| —Nor the comet that came unannounced, out of the north, flaring in heaven; |
| Nor the strange huge meteor procession, dazzling and clear, shooting over our heads, |
| (A moment, a moment long, it sail'd its balls of un- earthly light over our heads, |
| Then departed, dropt in the night, and was gone;) |
| —Of such, and fitful as they, I sing—with gleams from them would I gleam and patch these chants; |
| Your chants, O year, all mottled with evil and good! year of forebodings! year of the youth I love! |
| Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!—lo! even here, one equally transient and strange! |
| As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this book, |
| What am I myself but one of your meteors? |