A Boston Ballad [1854]

  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.

  Clear the way there Jonathan!
  Way for the President's marshal—way for the government cannon!
  Way for the Federal foot and dragoons, (and the apparitions
      copiously tumbling.)

  I love to look on the Stars and Stripes, I hope the fifes will play
      Yankee Doodle.
  How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!
  Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.

  A fog follows, antiques of the same come limping,
  Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.

  Why this is indeed a show—it has called the dead out of the earth!
  The old graveyards 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 shoulders.

  What troubles you Yankee phantoms? what is all this chattering of
      bare gums?
  Does the ague convulse your limbs? do you mistake your crutches for
      firelocks and level them?

  If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see the President's marshal,
  If you groan such groans you might balk the government cannon.

  For shame old maniacs—bring down those toss'd arms, and let your
      white hair be,
  Here gape your great grandsons, their wives gaze at them from the windows,
  See how well dress'd, see how orderly they conduct themselves.

  Worse and worse—can't you stand it? are you retreating?
  Is this hour with the living too dead for you?

  Retreat then—pell-mell!
  To your graves—back—back to the hills old limpers!
  I do not think you belong here anyhow.

  But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it
      is, gentlemen of Boston?

  I will whisper it to the Mayor, he shall send a committee to England,
  They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the
      royal vault,
  Dig out King George's coffin, unwrap him quick from the
      graveclothes, 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.

  Now call for the President's marshal again, bring out the government cannon,
  Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession,
      guard it with foot and dragoons.

  This centre-piece for them;
  Look, all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women!

  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.
  You have got your revenge, old buster—the crown is come to its own,
      and more than its own.

  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.





Europe [The 72d and 73d Years of These States]

  Suddenly out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
  Like lightning it le'pt forth half startled at itself,
  Its feet upon the ashes and the rags, its hands tight to the throats
      of kings.

  O hope and faith!
  O aching close of exiled patriots' lives!
  O many a sicken'd heart!
  Turn back unto this day and make yourselves afresh.

  And you, paid to defile the People—you liars, mark!
  Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,
  For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his
      simplicity the poor man's wages,
  For many a promise sworn by royal lips and broken and laugh'd at in
      the breaking,

  Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike revenge,
      or the heads of the nobles fall;
  The People scorn'd the ferocity of kings.

  But the sweetness of mercy brew'd bitter destruction, and the
      frighten'd monarchs come back,
  Each comes in state with his train, hangman, priest, tax-gatherer,
  Soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant.

  Yet behind all lowering stealing, lo, a shape,
  Vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front and form, in
      scarlet folds,
  Whose face and eyes none may see,
  Out of its robes only this, the red robes lifted by the arm,
  One finger crook'd pointed high over the top, like the head of a
      snake appears.

  Meanwhile corpses lie in new-made graves, bloody corpses of young men,
  The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are
      flying, the creatures of power laugh aloud,
  And all these things bear fruits, and they are good.

  Those corpses of young men,
  Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets, those hearts pierc'd by
      the gray lead,
  Cold and motionless as they seem live elsewhere with unslaughter'd vitality.

  They live in other young men O kings!
  They live in brothers again ready to defy you,
  They were purified by death, they were taught and exalted.

  Not a grave of the murder'd for freedom but grows seed for freedom,
      in its turn to bear seed,
  Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.

  Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
  But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counseling, cautioning.
  Liberty, let others despair of you—I never despair of you.

  Is the house shut? is the master away?
  Nevertheless, be ready, be not weary of watching,
  He will soon return, his messengers come anon.





A Hand-Mirror

  Hold it up sternly—see this it sends back, (who is it? is it you?)
  Outside fair costume, within ashes and filth,
  No more a flashing eye, no more a sonorous voice or springy step,
  Now some slave's eye, voice, hands, step,
  A drunkard's breath, unwholesome eater's face, venerealee's flesh,
  Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,
  Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,
  Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
  Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
  No brain, no heart left, no magnetism of sex;
  Such from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence,
  Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!





Gods

  Lover divine and perfect Comrade,
  Waiting content, invisible yet, but certain,
  Be thou my God.

  Thou, thou, the Ideal Man,
  Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving,
  Complete in body and dilate in spirit,
  Be thou my God.

  O Death, (for Life has served its turn,)
  Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion,
  Be thou my God.

  Aught, aught of mightiest, best I see, conceive, or know,
  (To break the stagnant tie—thee, thee to free, O soul,)
  Be thou my God.

  All great ideas, the races' aspirations,
  All heroisms, deeds of rapt enthusiasts,
  Be ye my Gods.

  Or Time and Space,
  Or shape of Earth divine and wondrous,
  Or some fair shape I viewing, worship,
  Or lustrous orb of sun or star by night,
  Be ye my Gods.





Germs

  Forms, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts,
  The ones known, and the ones unknown, the ones on the stars,
  The stars themselves, some shaped, others unshaped,
  Wonders as of those countries, the soil, trees, cities, inhabitants,
      whatever they may be,
  Splendid suns, the moons and rings, the countless combinations and effects,
  Such-like, and as good as such-like, visible here or anywhere, stand
      provided for a handful of space, which I extend my arm and
      half enclose with my hand,
  That containing the start of each and all, the virtue, the germs of all.





Thoughts

  Of ownership—as if one fit to own things could not at pleasure enter
      upon all, and incorporate them into himself or herself;
  Of vista—suppose some sight in arriere through the formative chaos,
      presuming the growth, fulness, life, now attain'd on the journey,
  (But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued;)
  Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become
      supplied—and of what will yet be s............