VIII. MEMORIES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN BY WALT WHITMAN.

263

ASHES OF SOLDIERS.

ASHES of soldiers South or North,
     As I muse retrospecitve murmuring a chant in
                   thought,
The war resumes, again to my sense your shapes,
And again the advance of the armies.


Noiseless as mists and vapors,
From their graves in the trenches ascending,
From cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,
From every point of the compass out of the countless
           graves,
In wafted clouds, in myriads large, or squads of twos
           or threes or single ones they come,
And silently gather round me.


Now sound no note O trumpeters,
Not at the head of my cavalry parading on spirited
           horses,
With sabres drawn and glistening, and carbines by
           their thighs, (ah my brave horsemen!
My handsome tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy
           and pride,
With all the perils were yours.)


Nor you drummers, neither at reveillé at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the camp, nor even the
           muffled beat for a burial,
264 Nothing from you this time O drummers bearing my
           warlike drums.


But aside from these and the marts of wealth and the
           crowded promenade,
Admitting around me comrades close unseen by the
           rest and voiceless,
The slain elate and alive again, the dust and debris
           alive,
I chant this chant of my silent soul in the name of all
           dead soldiers.


Faces so pale with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather
           closer yet,
Draw close, but speak not.


Phantoms of countless lost,
Invisible to the rest henceforth become my companions,
Follow me ever — desert me not while I live.


Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living — sweet
           are the musical voices sounding,
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead with their silent eyes.


Dearest comrades, all is over and long gone,
But love is not over — and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising, up from the fœtor
           arising.
265 Perfume therefore my chant, O love, immortal love,
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with
           tender pride.


Perfume all — make all wholesome,
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,
O love, solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.


Give me exhaustless, make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go like a moist
           perennial dew,
For the ashes of all dead soldiers South or North.