The Walt Whitman Archive
Published Works
Books by Whitman
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FIRST O 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. |
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| 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, |
| The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his mother, |
| (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; |
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| 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. |