Walt Whitman - The Complete Works of Walt Whitman

By his staff surrounded the General stood in the middle, he held up

his unsheath’d sword,

It glitter’d in the sun in full sight of the army.

Twas a bold act then — the English war-ships had just arrived,

We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,

And the transports swarming with soldiers.

A few days more and they landed, and then the battle.

Twenty thousand were brought against us,

A veteran force furnish’d with good artillery.

I tell not now the whole of the battle,

But one brigade early in the forenoon order’d forward to engage the

red-coats,

Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march’d,

And how long and well it stood confronting death.

Who do you think that was marching steadily sternly confronting death?

It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,

Rais’d in Virginia and Maryland, and most of them known personally

to the General.

Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus’ waters,

Till of a sudden unlook’d for by defiles through the woods, gain’d at night,

The British advancing, rounding in from the east, fiercely playing

their guns,

That brigade of the youngest was cut off and at the enemy’s mercy.

The General watch’d them from this hill,

They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment,

Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle,

But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them!

It sickens me yet, that slaughter!

I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General.

I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish.

Meanwhile the British manoeuvr’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle,

But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle.

We fought the fight in detachments,

Sallying forth we fought at several points, but in each the luck was

against us,

Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back

to the works on this hill,

Till we turn’d menacing here, and then he left us.

That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand

strong,

Few return’d, nearly all remain in Brooklyn.

That and here my General’s first battle,

No women looking on nor sunshine to bask in, it did not conclude

with applause,

Nobody clapp’d hands here then.

But in darkness in mist on the ground under a chill rain,

Wearied that night we lay foil’d and sullen,

While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord off against us encamp’d,

Quite within hearing, feasting, clinking wineglasses together over

their victory.

So dull and damp and another day,

But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing,

Silent as a ghost while they thought they were sure of him, my

General retreated.

I saw him at the river-side,

Down by the ferry lit by torches, hastening the embarcation;

My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over,

And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for

the last time.

Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom,

Many no doubt thought of capitulation.

But when my General pass’d me,

As he stood in his boat and look’d toward the coming sun,

I saw something different from capitulation.

[Terminus]

Enough, the Centenarian’s story ends,

The two, the past and present, have interchanged,

I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking.

And is this the ground Washington trod?

And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d,

As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs?

I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward,

I must preserve that look as it beam’d on you rivers of Brooklyn.

See — as the annual round returns the phantoms return,

It is the 27th of August and the British have landed,

The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke

Washington’s face,

The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept

the enemy,

They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them,

Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag,

Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds.

In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears.

Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable

than your owners supposed;

In the midst of you stands an encampment very old,

Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade.

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A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands,

They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun — hark to

the musical clank,

Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop

to drink,

Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the

negligent rest on the saddles,

Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford — while,

Scarlet and blue and snowy white,

The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind.

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I see before me now a traveling army halting,

Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer,

Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,

Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen,

The numerous camp-fires scatter’d near and far, some away up on the

mountain,

The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering,

And over all the sky — the sky! far, far out of reach, studded,

breaking out, the eternal stars.

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With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,

With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an

irregular volley,

The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on,

Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun — the dust-cover’d men,

In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,

With artillery interspers’d — the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,

As the army corps advances.

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By the bivouac’s fitful flame,

A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow — but

first I note,

The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,

The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence,

Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,

The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily

watching me,)

While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,

Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that

are far away;

A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,

By the bivouac’s fitful flame.

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Come up from the fields father, here’s a letter from our Pete,

And come to the front door mother, here’s a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, ’tis autumn,

Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,

Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages with leaves fluttering in the

moderate wind,

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis’d vines,

(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?