The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman
полная версия
Аннотация
Читать онлайн
- -
- 100%
- +
5
The place where a great city stands is not the place of stretch'd wharves, docks, manufactures, deposits of produce merely,Nor the place of ceaseless salutes of new-comers or the anchor-lifters of the departing,Nor the place of the tallest and costliest buildings or shops selling goods from the rest of the earth,Nor the place of the best libraries and schools, nor the place where money is plentiest,Nor the place of the most numerous population.Where the city stands with the brawniest breed of orators and bards,Where the city stands that is belov'd by these, and loves them in return and understands them,Where no monuments exist to heroes but in the common words and deeds,Where thrift is in its place, and prudence is in its place,Where the men and women think lightly of the laws,Where the slave ceases, and the master of slaves ceases,Where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity of elected persons,Where fierce men and women pour forth as the sea to the whistle of death pours its sweeping and unript waves,Where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside authority,Where the citizen is always the head and ideal, and President, Mayor, Governor and what not, are agents for pay,Where children are taught to be laws to themselves, and to depend on themselves,Where equanimity is illustrated in affairs,Where speculations on the soul are encouraged,Where women walk in public processions in the streets the same as the men,Where they enter the public assembly and take places the same as the men;Where the city of the faithfulest friends stands,Where the city of the cleanliness of the sexes stands,Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands,Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands,There the great city stands.6
How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!How the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a man's or woman's look!All waits or goes by default till a strong being appears;A strong being is the proof of the race and of the ability of the universe,When he or she appears materials are overaw'd,The dispute on the soul stops,The old customs and phrases are confronted, turn'd back, or laid away.What is your money-making now? what can it do now?What is your respectability now?What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books, now?Where are your jibes of being now?Where are your cavils about the soul now?7
A sterile landscape covers the ore, there is as good as the best for all the forbidding appearance,There is the mine, there are the miners,The forge-furnace is there, the melt is accomplish'd, the hammers-men are at hand with their tongs and hammers,What always served and always serves is at hand.Than this nothing has better served, it has served all,Served the fluent-tongued and subtle-sensed Greek, and long ere the Greek,Served in building the buildings that last longer than any,Served the Hebrew, the Persian, the most ancient Hindustanee,Served the mound-raiser on the Mississippi, served those whose relics remain in Central America,Served Albic temples in woods or on plains, with unhewn pillars and the druids,Served the artificial clefts, vast, high, silent, on the snow-cover'd hills of Scandinavia,Served those who time out of mind made on the granite walls rough sketches of the sun, moon, stars, ships, ocean waves,Served the paths of the irruptions of the Goths, served the pastoral tribes and nomads,Served the long distant Kelt, served the hardy pirates of the Baltic,Served before any of those the venerable and harmless men of Ethiopia,Served the making of helms for the galleys of pleasure and the making of those for war,Served all great works on land and all great works on the sea,For the mediæval ages and before the mediæval ages,Served not the living only then as now, but served the dead.8
I see the European headsman,He stands mask'd, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked arms,And leans on a ponderous axe.(Whom have you slaughter'd lately European headsman?Whose is that blood upon you so wet and sticky?)I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs,I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts,Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown'd ladies, impeach'd ministers, rejected kings,Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains and the rest.I see those who in any land have died for the good cause,The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out(Mind you O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall never run out).I see the blood wash'd entirely away from the axe,Both blade and helve are clean,They spirt no more the blood of European nobles, they clasp no more the necks of queens.I see the headsman withdraw and become useless,I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy, I see no longer any axe upon it,I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my own race, the newest, largest race.9
(America! I do not vaunt my love for you,I have what I have.)The axe leaps!The solid forest gives fluid utterances,They tumble forth, they rise and form,Hut, tent, landing, survey,Flail, plough, pick, crowbar, spade,Shingle, rail, prop, wainscot, jamb, lath, panel, gable,Citadel, ceiling, saloon, academy, organ, exhibition-house, library,Cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, window, turret, porch,Hoe, rake, pitchfork, pencil, wagon, staff, saw, jack-plane, mallet, wedge, rounce,Chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor,Work-box, chest, string'd instrument, boat frame, and what not,Capitols of States, and capitol of the nation of States,Long stately rows in avenues, hospitals for orphans or for the poor or sick,Manhattan steamboats and clippers taking the measure of all seas.The shapes arise!Shapes of the using of axes anyhow, and the users and all that neighbours them,Cutters down of wood and haulers of it to the Penobscot or Kennebec,Dwellers in cabins among the Californian mountains or by the little lakes, or on the Columbia,Dwellers south on the banks of the Gila or Rio Grande, friendly gatherings, the characters and fun,Dwellers along the St. Lawrence, or north in Kanada, or down by the Yellowstone, dwellers on coasts and off coasts,Seal-fishers, whalers, arctic seamen breaking passages through the ice.The shapes arise!Shapes of factories, arsenals, foundries, markets,Shapes of the two-threaded tracks of railroads,Shapes of the sleepers of bridges, vast frameworks, girders, arches,Shapes of the fleets of barges, tows, lake and canal craft, river craft,Ship-yards and dry-docks along the Eastern and Western seas, and in many a bay and by-place,The live-oak kelsons, the pine planks, the spars, the hackmatack-roots for knees,The ships themselves on their ways, the tiers of scaffolds, the workmen busy outside and inside,The tools lying around, the great auger and little auger, the adze, bolt, line, square, gouge, and bead-plane.10
The shapes arise!The shape measur'd, saw'd, jack'd, join'd, stain'd,The coffin-shape for the dead to lie within in his shroud,The shape got out in posts, in the bedstead posts, in the posts of the bride's bed,The shape of the little trough, the shape of the rockers beneath, the shape of the babe's cradle,The shape of the floor-planks, the floor-planks for dancers' feet,The shape of the planks of the family home, the home of the friendly parents and children,The shape of the roof of the home of the happy young man and woman, the roof over the well-married young man and woman,The roof over the supper joyously cook'd by the chaste wife, and joyously eaten by the chaste husband, content after his day's work.The shapes arise!The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her seated in the place,The shape of the liquor-bar lean'd against by the young rum-drinker and the old rum-drinker,The shape of the shamed and angry stairs trod by sneaking footsteps,The shape of the sly settee, and the adulterous unwholesome couple,The shape of the gambling-board with its devilish winnings and losings,The shape of the step-ladder for the convicted and sentenced murderer, the murderer with haggard face and pinion'd arms,The sheriff at hand with his deputies, the silent and white-lipp'd crowd, the dangling of the rope.The shapes arise!Shapes of doors giving many exits and entrances,The door passing the dissever'd friend flush'd and in haste,The door that admits good news and bad news,The door whence the son left home confident and puff'd up,The door he enter'd again from a long and scandalous absence, diseas'd, broken down, without innocence, without means.11
Her shape arises,She less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than ever,The gross and soil'd she moves among do not make her gross and soil'd,She knows the thoughts as she passes, nothing is conceal'd from her,She is none the less considerate or friendly therefor,She is the best belov'd, it is without exception, she has no reason to fear and she does not fear,Oaths, quarrels, hiccupp'd songs, smutty expressions, are idle to her as she passes,She is silent, she is possess'd of herself, they do not offend her,She receives them as the laws of Nature receive them, she is strong,She too is a law of Nature—there is no law stronger than she is.12
The main shapes arise!Shapes of Democracy total, result of centuries,Shapes ever projecting other shapes,Shapes of turbulent manly cities,Shapes of the friends and home-givers of the whole earth,Shapes bracing the earth and braced with the whole earth.GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN
1
Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling,Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard,Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows,Give me an arbour, give me the trellis'd grape,Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content,Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars,Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturb'd,Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman of whom I should never tire,Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the world a rural domestic life,Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only,Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!These demanding to have them (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack'd by the war-strife),These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city,Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets,Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time refusing to give me up,Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul, you give me forever faces(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries,I see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for).2
Keep your splendid silent sun,Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods,Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards,Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum;Give me faces and streets—give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!Give me interminable eyes—give me women—give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!Let me see new ones every day—let me hold new ones by the hand every day!Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan!Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching—give me the sound of the trumpets and drums!(The soldiers in companies or regiments—some starting away, flushed and reckless,Some, their time up, returning with thinn'd ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing)Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torchlight procession!The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following;People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants,Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now,The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets (even the sight of the wounded),Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus!Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.FACES
The old face of the mother of many children,Whist! I am fully content.Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning,It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences,It hangs thin by the sassafras and wild-cherry and cat-brier under them.I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,I heard what the singers were singing so long,Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-blue.Behold a woman!She looks out from her quaker cap, her face is clearer and more beautifulthan the sky.She sits in an armchair under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,The sun just shines on her old white head.Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen,Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with the distaff and the wheel.The melodious character of the earth,The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go and does not wish to go,The justified mother of men.O MAGNET-SOUTH
O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South! my South!O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!O dear to me my birth-things—all moving things and the trees where I was born—the grains, plants, rivers,Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, distant, over flats of silvery sands or through swamps,Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the Altamahaw, the Pedee, the Tombigbee, the Santee, the Coosa, and the Sabine,O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my soul to haunt their banks again,Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes, I float on the Okeechobee, I cross the hummock-land or through pleasant openings or dense forests,I see the parrots in the woods, I see the papaw-tree and the blossoming titi;Again, sailing in my coaster on deck, I coast off Georgia, I coast up the Carolinas,I see where the live-oak is growing, I see where the yellow-pine, the scented bay-tree, the lemon and orange, the cypress, the graceful palmetto,I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico sound through an inlet, and dart my vision inland;O the cotton plant! the growing fields of rice, sugar, hemp!The cactus guarded with thorns, the laurel-tree with large white flowers,The range afar, the richness and barrenness, the old woods charged with mistletoe and trailing moss,The piney odour and the gloom, the awful natural stillness (here in these dense swamps the freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive has his conceal'd hut);O the strange fascination of these half-known half-impassable swamps, infested by reptiles, resounding with the bellow of the alligator, the sad noises of the night-owl and the wild-cat, and the whirr of the rattlesnake,The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the forenoon, singing through the moon-lit night,The humming-bird, the wild turkey, the raccoon, the opossum;A Kentucky corn-field, the tall, graceful, long-leav'd corn, slender, flapping, bright green, with tassels, with beautiful ears each well-sheath'd in its husk;O my heart! O tender and fierce pangs, I can stand them not, I will depart;O to be a Virginian where I grew up! O to be a Carolinian!O longings irrepressible! O I will go back to old Tennessee and never wander more.BY BROAD POTOMAC'S SHORE
By broad Potomac's shore, again old tongue(Still uttering, still ejaculating, canst never cease this babble?)Again old heart so gay, again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning,Again the freshness and the odours, again Virginia's summer sky, pellucid blue and silver,Again the forenoon purple of the hills,Again the deathless grass, so noiseless soft and green,Again the blood-red roses blooming.Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses!Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!Give me of you O spring, before I close, to put between its pages!O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you!O deathless grass, of you!OUR OLD FEUILLAGE!
Always our old feuillage!Always Florida's green peninsula—always the priceless delta of Louisiana—always the cotton-fields of Alabama and Texas,Always California's golden hills and hollows, and the silver mountains of New Mexico—always soft-breath'd Cuba,Always the vast slope drain'd by the Southern sea, inseparable with the slopes drain'd by the Eastern and Western seas,The area the eighty-third year of these States, the three and a half millions of square miles,The eighteen thousand miles of sea-coast and bay-coast on the main, the thirty thousand miles of river navigation,The seven millions of distinct families and the same number of dwellings—always these, and more, branching forth into numberless branches,Always the free range and diversity—always the continent of Democracy;Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travellers, Kanada, the snows;Always these compact lands tied at the hips with the belt stringing the huge oval lakes;Always the West with strong native persons, the increasing density there, the habitans, friendly, threatening, ironical, scorning invaders;All sights, South, North, East—all deeds promiscuously done at all times,All characters, movements, growths, a few noticed, myriads unnoticed,Through Mannahatta's streets I walking, these things gathering,On interior rivers by night in the glare of pine knots, steamboats wooding up,Sunlight by day on the valley of the Susquehanna, and on the valleys of the Potomac and Rappahannock, and the valleys of the Roanoke and Delaware,In their northerly wilds beasts of prey haunting the Adirondacks the hills, or lapping the Saginaw waters to drink,In a lonesome inlet a sheldrake lost from the flock, sitting on the water rocking silently,In farmers' barns oxen in the stable, their harvest labour done, they rest standing, they are too tired,Afar on arctic ice the she-walrus lying drowsily while her cubs play around,The hawk sailing where men have not yet sail'd, the farthest polar sea, ripply, crystalline, open, beyond the floes,White drift spooning ahead where the ship in the tempest dashes,On solid land what is done in cities as the bells strike midnight together,In primitive woods the sounds there also sounding, the howl of the wolf, the scream of the panther, and the hoarse bellow of the elk,In winter beneath the hard blue ice of Moosehead lake, in summer visible through the clear waters, the great trout swimming,In lower latitudes in warmer air in the Carolinas the large black buzzard floating slowly high beyond the tree tops,Below, the red cedar festoon'd with tylandria, the pines and cypresses growing out of the white sand that spreads far and flat,Rude boats descending the big Pedee, climbing plants, parasites with colour'd flowers and berries enveloping huge trees,The waving drapery on the live-oak trailing long and low, noiselessly waved by the wind,The camp of Georgia wagoners just after dark, the supper-fires and the cooking and eating by whites and negroes,Thirty or forty great wagons, the mules, cattle, horses, feeding from troughs,The shadows, gleams, up under the leaves of the old sycamore-trees, the flames with the black smoke from the pitch-pine curling and rising;Southern fishermen fishing, the sounds and inlets of North Carolina's coast, the shad-fishery and the herring-fishery, the large sweep-seines, the windlasses on shore work'd by horses, the clearing, curing, and packing-houses;Deep in the forest in piney woods turpentine dropping from the incisions in the trees, there are the turpentine works,There are the negroes at work in good health, the ground in all directions is cover'd with pine straw;In Tennessee and Kentucky slaves busy in the coalings, at the forge, by the furnace-blaze, or at the corn-shucking,In Virginia, the planter's son returning after a long absence, joyfully welcom'd and kiss'd by the aged mulatto nurse,On rivers boatmen safely moor'd at nightfall in their boats under shelter of high banks,Some of the younger men dance to the sound of the banjo or fiddle, others sit on the gunwale smoking and talking;Late in the afternoon the mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing in the Great Dismal Swamp,There are the greenish waters, the resinous odour, the plenteous moss, the cypress-tree, and the juniper-tree;Northward, young men of Mannahatta, the target company from an excursion returning home at evening, the musket-muzzles all bear bunches of flowers presented by women;Children at play, or on his father's lap a young boy fallen asleep (how his lips move! how he smiles in his sleep!),The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the Mississippi, he ascends a knoll and sweeps his eyes around;California life, the miner, bearded, dress'd in his rude costume, the stanch California friendship, the sweet air, the graves one in passing meets solitary just aside the horse-path;Down in Texas the cotton-field, the negro-cabins, drivers driving mules or oxen before rude carts, cotton bales piled on banks and wharves;Encircling all, vast-darting up and wide, the American Soul, with equal hemispheres, one Love, one Dilation or Pride;In arrière the peace-talk with the Iroquois the aborigines, the calumet, the pipe of good-will, arbitration, and indorsement,The sachem blowing the smoke first toward the sun and then toward the earth,The drama of the scalp-dance enacted with painted faces and guttural exclamations,The setting out of the war-party, the long and stealthy march,The single file, the swinging hatchets, the surprise and slaughter of enemies;All the acts, scenes, ways, persons, attitudes of these States, reminiscences, institutions,All these States compact, every square mile of these States without excepting a particle;Me pleas'd, rambling in lanes and country fields, Paumanok's fields,Observing the spiral flight of two little yellow butterflies shuffling between each other, ascending high in the air,The darting swallow, the destroyer of insects, the fall traveller southward but returning northward early in the spring,The country boy at the close of the day driving the herd of cows and shouting to them as they loiter to browse by the roadside,The city wharf, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, San Francisco,The departing ships when the sailors heave at the capstan;Evening—me in my room—the setting sun,The setting summer sun shining in my open window, showing the swarm of flies, suspended, balancing in the air in the centre of the room, darting athwart, up and down, casting swift shadows in specks on the opposite wall where the shine is;The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds of listeners,Males, females, immigrants, combinations, the copiousness, the individuality of the States, each for itself—the money-makers,Factories, machinery, the mechanical forces, the windlass, lever, pulley, all certainties,The certainty of space, increase, freedom, futurity,In space the sporades, the scatter'd islands, the stars—on the firm earth, the lands, my lands,O lands! all so dear to me—what you are (whatever it is), I putting it at random in these songs, become a part of that, whatever it is,Southward there, I screaming, with wings slow flapping, with the myriads of gulls wintering along the coasts of Florida,Otherways there atwixt the banks of the Arkansaw, the Rio Grande, the Nueces, the Brazos, the Tombigbee, the Red River, the Saskatchewan or the Osage, I with the spring waters laughing and skipping and running,Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of Paumanok, I with parties of snowy herons wading in the wet to seek worms and aquatic plants,Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird, from piercing the crow with its bill, for amusement—and I triumphantly twittering,The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to refresh themselves, the body of the flock feed, the sentinels outside move around with erect heads watching, and are from time to time reliev'd by other sentinels—and I feeding and taking turns with the rest,In Kanadian forests the moose, large as an ox, corner'd by hunters, rising desperately on his hind-feet, and plunging with his fore-feet, the hoofs as sharp as knives—and I, plunging at the hunters, corner'd and desperate,In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, store-houses, and the countless workmen working in the shops,And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and no less in myself than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself,Singing the song of These, my ever-united lands—my body no more inevitable united, part to part, and made out of a thousand diverse contributions one identity, any more than my lands are inevitably united and made One identity;Nativities, climates, the grass of the great pastoral Plains,Cities, labours, death, animals, products, war, good and evil—these me,These affording, in all their particulars, the old feuillage to me and to America, how can I do less than pass the clew of the union of them, to afford the like to you?Whoever you are! how can I but offer you divine leaves, that you also be eligible as I am?How can I but as here chanting, invite you for yourself to collect bouquets of the incomparable feuillage of these States?