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.
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 blacksmith'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
favourites,
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;
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. |
