The English believe he comes of their English stock,
A Jew to the Jew he seems . . . . a Russ to the Russ . . . . usual and near . . removed from none.
Whoever he looks at in the traveler’s coffeehouse claims him,
The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is sure, and the Spaniard is sure . . . . and the island Cuban is sure.
The engineer, the deckhand on the great lakes or on the Mississippi or St Lawrence or Sacramento or Hudson or Delaware claims him.
The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood,
The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways of him . . . . he strangely transmutes them,
They are not vile any more . . . . they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.
You think it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses,
Well it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses;
But what are verses beyond the flowing character you could have? . . . . or beyond beautiful manners and behaviour?
Or beyond one manly or affectionate deed of an apprenticeboy? . . or old woman? . . or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison?
Europe the 72d and 73d Years of These States (1855)
Suddenly out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
Like lightning Europe 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 lives! O many a sickened 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 laughed at in the breaking,
Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike of personal revenge . . or the heads of the nobles fall;
The People scorned the ferocity of kings.
But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened rulers come back:
Each comes in state with his train . . . . hangman, priest and tax-gatherer . . . . soldier, lawyer, jailer and sycophant.
Yet behind all, 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 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 pierced 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 murdered 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 Boston Ballad (1855)
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 phantoms afterward.
I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston town;
Here’s a good place at the corner . . . . I must stand and see the show.
I love to look on the stars and stripes . . . . I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.
How bright shine the foremost with cutlasses,
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 a show! It has called the dead out of the earth,
The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see;
Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear of it,
Cocked hats of mothy mould and crutches made of mist,
Arms in slings and 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 tossed arms, and let your white hair be;
Here gape your smart grandsons . . . . their wives gaze at them from the windows,
See how well-dressed . . . . 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! . . . . 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, and go with a cart to the royal vault,