VIII. MEMORIES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN BY WALT WHITMAN.

261

SPIRIT WHOSE WORK IS DONE.

(Washington City, 1865.)

SPIRIT whose work is done — spirit of dreadful,
    hours!
Ere departing fade from my eyes your forests of
           bayonets;
Spirit of gloomiest fears and doubts, (yet onward ever
           unfaltering pressing,)
Spirit of many a solemn day and many a savage scene
           — eclectic spirit,
That with muttering voice through the war now closed,
           like a tireless phantom flitted,
Rousing the land with breath of flame, while you beat
           and beat the drum,
Now as the sound of the drum, hollow and harsh to
           the last, reverberates round me,
As your ranks, your immortal ranks, return, return from
           the battles,
As the muskets of the young men yet lean over their
           shoulders,
As I look on the bayonets bristling over their should-
           ers,
As those slanted bayonets, whole forests of them
           appearing in the distance, approach and pass on,
           returning homeward,
Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the
           right and left,
261 Evenly lightly rising and falling while the steps keep
           time;
Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale
           as death next day,
Touch my mouth ere you depart, press my lips close,
Leave me your pulses of rage — bequeath them to me
           — fill me with currents convulsive,
Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when
           you are gone,
Let them identify you to the future in these songs.