LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 
 
 Edited by £. Haldeman-Julius 
 
 351 
 
 Memories of Lincoln 
 
 Walt Whitman 
 
LINCOLN ROOM 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 MEMORIAL 
 
 the Class of 1901 
 
 founded by 
 
 HARLAN HOYT HORNER 
 
 and 
 
 HENRIETTA CALHOUN HORNER 
 
TEN CENT POCKET SERIES NO. 351 
 
 Edited by E. Ualdeman-Julius 
 
 Memories of Lincoln 
 
 Walt Whitman 
 
 HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY 
 GIRARD, KANSAS 
 
I'KINTKI) IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN. 
 
He knew to bide his time, 
 And can his fame abide, 
 Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 
 Till the wise years decide. 
 Great captains, with their guns and drums. 
 Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
 But at last silence comes; 
 These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, 
 Our children shall behold his fame. 
 
 The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
 Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
 New birth of our new soil, the first American. 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 Whitman did not subject Lincoln to the lit- 
 erary but to the human motive. Lincoln does 
 not become a literary figure by his touch. Does 
 not become a man in a book. After Whitman 
 is done with him Lincoln still remains Lincoln. 
 No way reduced. No way aggrandized. Only 
 toetter understood. His background does not 
 become a book. His background remains what 
 it was. Remains life. Generic life. As life 
 is where life finds life at the root. I may let 
 Whitman put in a word for himself. Whitman 
 said to me of Lincoln: 
 
 "Lincoln is particularly my man — particu- 
 larly belongs to me; yes, and by the same 
 taken I am Lincoln's man: I guess I parti- 
 cularly belong to him: we are afloat in the 
 same stream — we are rooted in the same 
 ground. " 
 
 To know the Lincoln of Whitman you want 
 t3 know the Whitman of Whitman. Whitman 
 was literary. But he was not first of all lit- 
 erary. Or last of all literary. First of all he 
 was human. He was not the leaves of a book. 
 He was the bone and flesh of a man. Yes, he 
 was that something or other not bone or flesh 
 which is also of a man — which finally is the 
 rnan. Simply literary analysis can make little 
 out of Whitman. He does not yield to the 
 scalpel. He is not to be resurrected from an 
 iikpot. His voice falls in with the p v ophet 
 voices. He was not unlettered. He knew rhe 
 
6 MHJMUKJ&S OK MNCOL.N 
 
 alphabet. But he kept all alphabetical ar- 
 rogance well in hand. The letter was kept in 
 hand. The spirit was left free. You cannot 
 buy a ticket for Athens or Weimar or Paris or 
 London or Boston and reach Whitman. He is 
 never reached in that circle. The literary cen- 
 ters do not lead to him. You have got to 
 travel to him by another route. You go East 
 and find the Buddhistic canticles. You con- 
 sult the Zoroastrian avatars. And you take 
 the word of Jesus for a great deal. And you 
 may hit Socrates on the way. And you keep 
 on with your journey, touchng here and there 
 in European history certain men, certain in- 
 fluences. Going into port now and then. 
 Never going where men compete for literary 
 judgment. Never where men set out to acquit 
 themselves immortally as artists. Keeping 
 forever close to the careless rhythms of ori- 
 ginal causes. So you go on. And go on. And 
 by and by you arrive at Whitman. Not by way 
 of the university. Not by way of Shakespeare. 
 Not by way of the literary experts and adepts. 
 But by human ways. To try to find Whit- 
 man by way of Shakespeare or Moliere would 
 be hopeless. I do not disparage the other 
 routes to other men. I am only describing this 
 route to Whitman. This route, which is the 
 only route. Whitman chants and prays and 
 soars. He is not pretty. He is only beauti- 
 ful. He is not beautiful with the beauty of 
 beauty. He is beautiful with the beauty of 
 truth. The pen can easily miss Whitman. 
 But the heart reaches him direct. Whitman is 
 therefore the best route to Lincoln. The same 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN T 
 
 process which provides Whitman for you pro- 
 vided Lincoln for Whitman. Whitman said 
 to me again about Lincoln: 
 
 "There was no reason why Lincoln should not 
 have been a prophet rather than a politician; 
 he was in fact a divine prophet-politician; in 
 him for almost the first time prophecy had 
 something to say in politics. I shouldn't won- 
 der but that in another age of the world Lin- 
 coln would have been a chosen man to lead in 
 some rebellion against ecclesiastical institu- 
 tions and religious form and ceremony." 
 Horace Traubel. 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 The main effect of this poem is of strong 
 solemn, and varied music; and it involves in its 
 construction a principle after which perhaps 
 the great composers most work — namely, spiri- 
 tual auricular analogy. At first it would seem 
 to defy analysis, so rapt is it, and so indirect. 
 No reference whatever is made to the mere fact 
 of Lincoln's death; the poet does not even dwell 
 upon its unprovoked atrocity, and only occasion- 
 ally is the tone that of lamentation; but, with 
 the intuitions of the grand art, which is the most 
 complex when it seems most simple, he seizes 
 upon three beautiful facts of nature, which he 
 weaves into a wreath for the dead President's 
 tomb. The central thought is of death, but 
 around this he curiously twines, first, the early- 
 blooming lilacs which the poet may have plucked 
 the day the dark shadow came; next the song of 
 the hermit thrush, the most sweet and solemn of 
 all our songsters, heard at twilight in the dusky 
 cedars; and with these the evening star, which, 
 as many may remember, night after night in the 
 early part of that eventful spring", hung- low in 
 •the west with unusual and tender brightness. 
 These are the premises whence he starts his 
 solemn chant. 
 
 The attitude, therefore, is not that of being 
 bowed down and weeping hopeless tears, but of 
 singing- a commemorative hymn, in which the 
 voices of nature join, and fits that exalted con- 
 dition of the soul which serious events and the 
 presence of death induce. 
 
 JOTTN BURROUGHS. 
 
MEMOR] ::s OF LINCOLN 
 
 WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD 
 BLOOM'D. 
 
 When lilacs last in the dooryard 
 
 bloom'd, 
 And the great star early droop'd in the 
 
 western sky in the night, 
 I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with 
 
 ever-returning spring. 
 
 Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to 
 
 me you bring, 
 Lilac blooming perennial and drooping 
 
 star in the west, 
 And thought of him I love. 
 2 
 
 powerful western fallen star! 
 shades of night — O moody, tearful 
 night ! 
 
10 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 great star disappear'd — the black 
 murk that hides the star! 
 
 cruel hands that hold me powerless — 
 helpless soul of me ! 
 
 harsh surrounding cloud that will not 
 free my soul. 
 
 In the dooryard fronting an old farm- 
 house near the white-wash'd 
 palings, 
 
 Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with 
 heart-shaped leaves of rich green, 
 
 With many a pointed blossom rising 
 delicate, with the perfume strong 
 I love, 
 
 With every leaf a miracle — and from 
 this bush in the dooryard, 
 
 With delicate-color'd blossoms and 
 heart-shaped leaves of rich green, 
 
 A sprig with its flower I break. 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 11 
 
 In the swamp in secluded recesses, 
 A shy and hidden bird is warbling a 
 song. 
 
 Solitary the thrush, 
 
 The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoid- 
 ing the settlements, 
 
 Sings by himself a song. 
 
 Song of the bleeding throat, 
 
 Death's outlet song of life, (for well 
 dear brother I know\ 
 
 If thou wast not granted to sing thou 
 would'st surely die.) 
 
 Over the breast of the spring, the land, 
 
 amid cities, 
 Amid lanes and through old woods, 
 
 where lately the violets peep'd 
 
 from the ground, spotting the 
 
 gray debris, 
 
12 MEMORT.BR OF LINCOLN 
 
 Amid the grass in the fields each side of 
 the lanes, passing the endless 
 grass, 
 
 Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every 
 grain from its shroud in the 
 dark-brown fields uprisen, 
 
 Passing the apple-tree blows of white 
 and pink in the orchards, 
 
 Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest 
 in the grave, 
 
 Night and day journeys a coffin. 
 
 6 
 
 Coffin that passes through lanes and 
 streets, 
 
 Through day and night with the gre&t 
 cloud darkening the land, 
 
 With the pomp of the inloop'd flags 
 with the cities draped in black, 
 
 With the show of the States themselves 
 as of crape-veiPd women stand- 
 ing, 
 
 With processions long and winding and 
 the flambeaus of the night, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN II 
 
 With the countless torches lit, with the 
 
 silent sea of faces and the un- 
 bared heads, 
 With the waiting depot, the arriving 
 
 coffin, and the sombre faces, 
 With dirges through the night, with the 
 
 thousand voices rising strong 
 
 and solemn, 
 With all the mournful voices of the 
 
 dirges pour'd around the coffin, 
 The dim-lit churches and the shuddering 
 
 organs — where amid these you 
 
 journey, 
 With the tolling, tolling bell's perpetual 
 
 clang, 
 Here, coffin that slowly passes, 
 I give you my sprig of lilac. 
 
 7 
 (Nor for you, for one alone, 
 Blossoms and branches green to coffins 
 
 all I bring, 
 For fresh as the morning, thus would 
 
 I chant a song for you sane 
 
 and sacred death. 
 
11 M EMOTUES OF LINCOLN 
 
 All over bouquets of roses, 
 
 death, I cover you over with roses and 
 
 early lilies, 
 But mostly and now the lilac that 
 
 blooms the first, 
 Copious I break, I break the sprigs 
 
 from the bushes, 
 With loaded arms I come, pouring for 
 
 you, 
 For you and the coffins all of you 
 
 death.) 
 
 8 
 
 western orb sailing the heaven, 
 Now I know what you must have meant 
 
 as a month since I walk'd, 
 As I walk'd in silence the transparent 
 
 shadowy night, 
 As I saw you had something to tell as 
 
 you bent to me night after night, 
 As you droop'd from the sky low down 
 
 as if to my side, (while the other 
 
 stars all look'd on,) 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 15 
 
 As we wander'd together the solemn 
 
 night, (for something I know 
 
 not what kept me from sleep,) 
 As the night advanced, and I saw on the 
 
 rim of the west how full you 
 
 were of woe, 
 As I stood on the rising ground in the 
 
 breeze in the cool transparent 
 
 night, 
 As I watch'd where you pass'd and was 
 
 lost in the netherward black of 
 
 the night, 
 As my soUl in its trouble dissatisfied 
 
 sank, as where you sad orb. 
 Concluded, clropt in the night, and was: 
 
 gone. 
 
 9 
 
 Sing on there in, the swamp, 
 
 singer bashful and tender, I hear your 
 
 notes, I hear your call, 
 
 1 hear, I come presently, I understand 
 
 you, 
 
16 MEMORJ ES OF LINCOLN 
 
 But a moment I linger, for the lustrous 
 
 star has detain'd me, 
 The star my departing comrade holds 
 
 and detains me. 
 
 10 
 
 how shall I warble myself for the 
 dead one there I loved? 
 
 And how shall I deck my song for the 
 large sweet soul that has gone? 
 
 And what shall my perfume be for the 
 grave of him I love ? 
 
 Sea-winds blown from east and west, 
 
 Blown from the Eastern sea and blown 
 from the Western sea, till there 
 on the prairies meeting, 
 
 These and with these and the breath of 
 my chant, 
 
 I'll perfume the grave of him I love. 
 
 11 
 
 what shall I hang on the chamber 
 
 walls? 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 17 
 
 And what shall the pictures be that I 
 
 hang on the walls, 
 To adorn the burial-house of him I 
 
 love? 
 
 Pictures of growing spring and farms 
 
 and homes, 
 With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, 
 
 and the gray smoke lucid and 
 
 bright, 
 With floods of the yellow gold of the 
 
 gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, 
 
 burning, expanding the air, 
 With the fresh sweet herbage under 
 
 foot, and the pale green leaves 
 
 of the trees prolific, 
 In the distance the flowing glaze, the 
 
 breast of the river, with a wind- 
 dapple here and there, 
 With ranging hills on the banks, with 
 
 many a line against the sky, and 
 
 shadows, 
 And the city at hand with dwellings so 
 
 dense, and stacks of chimneys, 
 
i8 MICMoUlKS OF LINCOLN 
 
 And all the scenes of life and the work- 
 shops, and the workmen home- 
 ward returning. 
 
 Lo, body and soul — this land, 
 
 My own Manhattan with spires, and 
 the sparkling and hurrying tides, 
 and the ships, 
 
 The varied and ample land, the South 
 and the North in the light, Ohio's 
 shores and flashing Missouri, 
 
 And ever the far-spreading prairies 
 covered with grass and corn. 
 
 Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and 
 haughty. 
 
 The violet and purple morn with just- 
 felt breezes, 
 
 The gentle soft-born measureless light. 
 
 The miracle spreading bathing all, the 
 fulfiird noon, 
 
 The coming eve delicious, the welcome 
 night and the stars, 
 
 Over my cities shining all, enveloping 
 man and land. 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN- 19 
 
 13 
 
 Song on, sing on you gray-brown bird, 
 
 Sing from the swamps, the recesses, 
 pour your chant from the bushes, 
 
 Limitless out of the dusk, out of the 
 cedars and pines. 
 
 Sing on dearest brother, warble your 
 reedy song, 
 
 Loud human song, with voice of utter- 
 most woe. 
 
 liquid and free and tender! 
 
 wild and loose to my soul — won- 
 drous singer ! 
 
 You only I hear — yet the star holds me, 
 (but will soon depart,) 
 
 Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds 
 me. 
 
 14 
 
 Now while I sat in the day and look'd 
 forth, 
 
20 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 In the close of the day with its light 
 and the fields of spring, and the 
 farmers preparing their crops, 
 
 In the large unconscious scenery of my 
 land with its lakes and forests, 
 
 In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after 
 the perturb'd winds and the 
 storms,) 
 
 Under the arching heavens of the after- 
 noon swift passing, and the 
 voices of children and women, 
 
 The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw 
 the ships how they sail'd, 
 
 And the summer approaching with 
 richness, and the fields all busy 
 with labor, 
 
 And the infinite separate houses, how 
 they all went on, each with its 
 meals and minutia of daily 
 usages, 
 
 And the streets how their throbbings 
 throbb'd, and the cities pent — lo, 
 then and there, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 21 
 
 Falling upon them all and among them 
 all, enveloping me with the rest, 
 
 Appeared the cloud, appear'd the long 
 black trail, 
 
 And I knew death, its thought, and the 
 sacred knowledge of death. 
 
 Then with the knowledge of death as 
 walking one side of me, 
 
 And the thought of death close-walking 
 the other side of me, 
 
 And I in the middle as with companions, 
 and as holding the hands of com- 
 panions, 
 
 I fled forth to the hiding receiving night 
 that talks not, 
 
 Down to the shores of the water, the 
 path by the swamp in the- dim- 
 ness, 
 
 To the solemn shadowy cedars and 
 ghostly pines so still. 
 
 And the singer so shy to the rest 
 receiv'd me, 
 
22 MEMORIES OP LINCOLN 
 
 The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd 
 
 us comrades three, 
 And he sang the carol of death, and a 
 
 verse for him I love. 
 
 From deep secluded recesses, 
 
 From the fragrant cedars and the 
 
 ghostly pines so still, 
 Came the carol of the bird. 
 
 And the charm of the carol rapt me, 
 As I held as if by their hands my com- 
 rades in the night, 
 And the voice of my spirit tallied the 
 song of the bird. 
 
 Come lovely and soothing death, 
 Undulate round the world, serenely ar- 
 riving, arriving, 
 In the day, in the night, to all, to each, 
 Sooner or later delicate death. 
 
 Prats' d be the fathomless universe, 
 For life and joy, and for objects and 
 knoivledge curious, 
 
MEMORIES of i/rxroT.x & 
 
 And for love, sweet love — but prt)tt&&! 
 praise! praise! 
 
 For the sure-enwinding arms of cool- 
 enfolding death. 
 
 Bark mother always gliding near with 
 soft feet, 
 
 Have none chanted for thee a chant tff 
 f idlest ivelcome 4 ! 
 
 Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee 
 above all, \ 
 
 I bring thee a song that when thou 
 must indeed come, come unfalter- 
 ingly. 
 
 Approach strong deliveress, 
 
 When it is so, when thou hast taken 
 
 them I joyously sing the dead, 
 Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, 
 Laved in the flood of thy bliss death. 
 
 From me to thee glad serenades, 
 Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, 
 
 adornments and feastings for 
 
 thee, 
 
24 MEMORIES OP LINCOLN 
 
 And the sights of the open landscape 
 and the high-spread sky are fit- 
 
 And life and the fields, and the huge 
 and thoughtful night. 
 
 The night in silence under many a star, 
 The ocean shore and the husky tvhisper- 
 
 ing wave lohose voice I know, 
 And the soul turning to thee vast and 
 
 well-veiVd death, 
 And the body gratefully nestling close 
 
 to thee. 
 Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, 
 Over the rising and sinking waves, over 
 
 the myriad fields and the prairies 
 
 wide, 
 Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the 
 
 teeming tvharves and ways, 
 I float this carol with joy, with joy to 
 
 thee death. 
 
 15 
 
 To the tally of my soul, 
 
MH.VIORIBS OF LINCOLN 25 
 
 Loud and strong- kept up the gray-brown 
 
 bird, 
 With pure deliberate notes spreading 
 
 filling the night. 
 
 Loud in the pines and cedars dim, 
 Clear in the freshness moist and the 
 
 swamp-perfume, 
 And I with my comrades there in the 
 
 night. 
 
 While my sight that was bound in my 
 
 eyes unclosed, 
 As to long panoramas of visions. 
 
 And I saw askant the armies, 
 
 I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of 
 
 battle-flags, 
 Borne through the smoke of the battles 
 
 and pierc'd with missiles I saw 
 
 them, 
 And carried hither and yon through 
 
 the smoke, and torn and bloody, 
 And at last but a few shreds left on the 
 
 staffs, (and all in silence), 
 And the staffs all splinter' d and broken. 
 
SJ6 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, 
 
 And the white skeletons of young men, 
 I saw them, 
 
 I saw the debris and debris of all the 
 slain soldiers of the war, 
 
 But I saw they were not as was thought, 
 
 They themselves were fully at rest, they 
 suffer'cl not, 
 
 The living remain'd and suffer'd, the 
 mother suffer'd, 
 
 And the wife and the child and the mus- 
 ing comrade suffer'd, 
 
 And the armies that remain'd suffer'd. 
 
 16 
 
 Passing the visions, passing the night, 
 
 Passing, unloosing the hold of my com- 
 rades' hands, 
 
 Passing the song of the hermit bird and 
 the tallying song of my soul, 
 
 Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet 
 varying ever-altering song, 
 
Ml^.iOKiES OF JLlNCOLrN 2Y 
 
 As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, 
 rising and falling, flooding the 
 night, 
 
 Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning 
 and warning, and yet again 
 bursting with joy, 
 
 Covering the earth and filling the 
 spread of the heaven, 
 
 As that powerful psalm in the night I 
 heard from recesses, 
 
 Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart- 
 shaped leaves, 
 
 I leave thee there in the dooryard, 
 blooming, returning with spring. 
 
 I cease from my song for thee, 
 From my gaze on thee in the west, front- 
 ing the west, communing with 
 thee, 
 comrade lustrous with silver face in 
 the night. 
 
 Yet each to keep and all, retrievements 
 out of the night, 
 
28 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 The song, the wondrous chant of the 
 
 gray-brown bird, 
 And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd 
 
 in my soul, 
 With the lustrous and drooping star 
 
 with the countenance full of woe, 
 With the holders holding my hand near- 
 
 ing the call of the bird, 
 Comrades mine and I in the midst, and 
 
 their memory ever to keep, for 
 
 the dead I loved so well, 
 For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my 
 
 days and lands — and this for his 
 
 dear sake, 
 Lilac and star and bird twined with the 
 
 chant of my soul, 
 There in the fragrant pines and the 
 
 cedars dusk and dim. 
 
 CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 
 
 O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip 
 is done, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 29 
 
 The ship has weather'd every rack, the 
 
 prize we sought is won, 
 The port is near, the bells I hear, the 
 
 people all exulting, 
 While follow eyes the steady keel, the 
 vessel grim and daring; 
 But heart ! heart ! heart ! 
 the bleeding drops of red, 
 Where on the deck my Captain 
 lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead. 
 Captain! My Captain! rise up and 
 
 hear the bells ; 
 Ri se up— for you the flag is flung— for 
 
 you the bugle trills, 
 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths 
 — for you the shores a-crowding, 
 For you they call, the swaying mass, 
 their eager faces turning ; 
 Here Captain! dear father! 
 This arm beneath your head ! 
 It is some dream that on the 
 deck, 
 You've fallen cold and dead. 
 
:,,i MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 JMy Captain does not answer, his lips are 
 
 pale and still, 
 My father does not feel my arm, he has 
 
 no pulse nor will, 
 The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its 
 
 voyage closed and done, 
 From fearful trip the victor ship comes 
 in with object won ; 
 Exult shores, and ring bells ! 
 But I with mournful tread, 
 Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead. 
 
 in. 
 
 HUSH'D BE THE CAMPS TODAY. 
 (May 4, 1865) 
 Hush'd be the camps to-day, 
 And soldiers let us drape our war-worn 
 
 weapons, 
 And each with musing soul retire to 
 
 celebrate, 
 Our dear commander's death. 
 No more for him ^fe's stormy conflicts, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 31 
 
 Nor victory, nor defeat — no more time's 
 
 dark events, 
 Charging like ceaseless clouds across 
 
 the sky. 
 
 But sing poet in our name, 
 
 Sing of the love we bore him — because 
 
 you, dweller in camps, know it 
 
 truly. 
 
 As they invault the coffin there, 
 
 Sing — as they close the doors of earth 
 
 upon him — one verse, 
 For the heavy hearts of soldiers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THIS DUST WAS ONCE THE MAN. 
 
 This dust was once the man, 
 
 Gentle, plain, just and resolute, under 
 
 whose cautious hand, 
 Against the foulest crime in history 
 
 known in any land or age, 
 Was saved t^p Union of these States. 
 
32 MEMORIES OF JJNCOI^N 
 
 LYRICS OF THE WAR. 
 BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS! 
 
 Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! 
 
 blow! 
 Through the windows — through doors 
 
 — burst like a ruthless force. 
 Into the solemn church, and scatter 
 
 the congregation, 
 Into the school where tfie scholar is 
 
 studying ; 
 Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no 
 
 happiness must he have now 
 
 with his bride, 
 Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, 
 
 ploughing his field or gathering 
 
 his grain, 
 So fierce you whirr and pound you 
 
 drums — so shrill you bugles blow. 
 
 Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! 
 blow! 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 33 
 
 Over the traffic of cities — over the rum- 
 ble of wheels in the streets; 
 
 Are beds prepared for sleepers at night 
 in the houses? no sleepers must 
 sleep in those beds, 
 
 No bargainers' bargains by day — no 
 brokers or speculators — would 
 they continue? 
 
 Would the talkers be talking? would the 
 singer attempt to sing? 
 
 Would the lawyer rise in the court to 
 state his case before the judge? 
 
 Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — 
 you bugles wilder blow. 
 
 Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! 
 blow! 
 
 Make no parley — stop for no expostu- 
 lation, 
 
 Mind not the timid — mind not the weep- 
 er or prayer, 
 
 Mind not the old man beseeching the 
 young man, 
 
 Let not the child's voice be heard, nor 
 
 the mother's entreaties, 
 
34 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 Make even the trestles to shake the 
 dead where they lie awaiting the 
 hearses, 
 
 So strong you thump terrible drums 
 — so loud you bugles blow. 
 
 COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER. 
 
 Come up from the fields father, here's 
 a letter from our Pete, 
 
 And come to the front door mother, 
 here's a letter from thy dear son. 
 
 Lo, 't is autumn, 
 
 Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yel- 
 lower and redder, 
 
 Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with 
 leaves fluttering in the moderate 
 wind, 
 
 Where apples ripe in the orchards hang 
 and grapes on the trellis'd vines, 
 
 (Smell you the smell of the grapes on 
 the vines? 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 35 
 
 Smell you the buckwheat where the bees 
 were lately buzzing?) 
 
 Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so trans- 
 parent after the rain, and with 
 wondrous clouds, 
 
 Below too, all calm, all vital and beau- 
 tiful, and the farm prospers well. 
 
 Down in the fields all prospers well, 
 But now from the fields come father, 
 
 come at the daughter's call, 
 And come to the entry mother, to the 
 
 front door come right away. 
 Fast as she can she hurries, something 
 
 ominous, her steps trembling, 
 She does not tarry to smooth her hair 
 
 nor adjust her cap. 
 Open the envelope quickly, 
 this is not our son's writing, yet his 
 
 name is sign'd, 
 a strange hand writes for our dear 
 
 son, stricken mother's soul ! 
 
36 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 All swims before her eyes, flashes with 
 
 black, she catches the main words 
 
 only, 
 Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the 
 
 breast, cavalry skirmish, taken 
 
 to hospital, 
 At present low, but will soon be better'. 
 
 Ah now the single figure to me, 
 
 Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with 
 
 all its cities and farms, 
 Sickly white in the face and dull in the 
 
 head, very faint, 
 By the jamb of a door leans. 
 
 Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just- 
 grown daughter speaks through 
 her sobs, 
 
 The little sisters huddle around speech- 
 less and dismay'd,) 
 
 See. dearest mother, the letter says Pete 
 will soon be better. 
 
 Alas poor boy, he will never be better, 
 (nor may-be needs to be better, 
 chat brave and simple soul,) 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 37 
 
 While they stand at home at the door he 
 
 is dead already, 
 The only son is dead. 
 
 But the mother needs to be better, 
 
 She with thin form presently drest in 
 black, 
 
 By day her meals untouch'd, t then at 
 night fitfully sleeping, often wak- 
 ing, 
 
 In the midnight waking, weeping, long- 
 ing with one deep longing, 
 
 that she might withdraw unnoticed, 
 silent from life escape and with- 
 draw, 
 
 To follow, to seek, to be with her dear 
 dead son. 
 
 THE WOUND-DRESSER. 
 1 
 
 An old man bending I come among new 
 
 faces, 
 Years looking backward resuming in 
 
 answer to children, 
 
3S MEMORIES OP LINCOLN 
 
 Come tell us old man, as from young 
 
 men and maidens that lova me, 
 (Arous'd and angry, I 'd thought to beat 
 
 the alarum, and urge relentless 
 
 war, 
 But soon my fingers faiPd me, my face 
 
 droop'd and I resign'd myself, 
 To sit by the wounded and soothe them, 
 
 or silently watch the dead;) 
 Years hence of these scenes, of these 
 
 furious passions, these chances, 
 Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so 
 
 brave? the other was equally 
 
 brave;) 
 
 Now be witness again, paint the mighti- 
 est armies of earth, 
 
 Of those armies so rapid so wondrous 
 what saw you to tell us? 
 
 What stays with you latest and deepest ? 
 of curious panics, 
 
 Of hard-fought engagements or sieges 
 tremendous what deepest re- 
 mains ? 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 39 
 
 2 
 
 maidens and young men I love and 
 that love me, 
 
 What you ask of my days those the 
 strangest and sudden your talk- 
 ing recalls, 
 
 Soldier alert I arrive after a long march 
 cover'd with sweat and dust, 
 
 In the nick of time I come, plunge in the 
 fight, loudly shout in the rush of 
 successful charge, 
 
 Enter the captur'd works — yet lo, like a 
 swift-running river they fade, 
 
 Pass and are gone they fade — I dwell not. 
 on soldiers' perils or soldiers' 
 joys, 
 
 (Both I remember well — many the hard- 
 ships, few the joys, yet I was 
 content.) 
 
 But in silence, in dreams' projections, 
 While the world of gain and appearance 
 and mirth goes on. 
 
40 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 So soon what is over forgotten, and 
 
 waves wash the imprints off the 
 
 sand, 
 With hinged knees returning I enter the 
 
 doors, (while for you up there, 
 Whoever you are, follow without noise 
 
 and be of strong heart.) 
 Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, 
 Straight and swift to my wounded I go, 
 Where they lie on the ground after the 
 
 battle brought in, 
 Where their priceless blood reddens the 
 
 grass the ground, 
 Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or 
 
 under the roof'd hospital, 
 To the long rows of cots up and down 
 
 each side I return, 
 To each and all one after another I draw 
 
 near, not one do I miss, 
 An attendant follows holding a tray, he 
 
 carries a refuse pail, 
 Soon to be fill'd with clotted rags and 
 
 blood, emptied, and fill'd again. 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 41 
 
 I onward go, I stop, 
 
 With hinged knees and steady hand to 
 
 dress wounds, 
 I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp 
 
 yet unavoidable, 
 One turns to me his appealing eyes — 
 
 poor boy ! I never knew you, 
 Yet I think I could not refuse this 
 
 moment to die for you, if that 
 
 would save you. 
 
 On, on I go, (open doors of time! open 
 
 hospital doors!) 
 The crushed head I dress, (poor crazed 
 
 hand tear not the bandage 
 
 away,) 
 The neck of the cavalry-man with the 
 
 bullet through and through I ex- 
 amine, 
 Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed 
 
 already the eye, yet life struggles 
 
 hard, 
 
4!> MEMORIES OK l.TXCOlvN 
 
 (Come sweet death! be persuaded 
 
 beautiful death! 
 In mercy come quickly.) 
 
 From the stump of the arm, the ampu- 
 tated hand, 
 
 I undo the clotted lint, remove the 
 slough, wash off the matter and 
 blood, 
 
 Back on his pillow the soldier bends with 
 curv'd neck and side-falling head, 
 
 His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he 
 dares not look on the bloody 
 stump, 
 
 And has not yet look'd on it. 
 
 I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, 
 But a day or two more, for see the frame 
 
 all wasted and sinking, 
 And the yellow-blue countenance see. 
 I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot 
 
 with the bullet-wound, 
 Cleanse the one with a gnawing and 
 
 putrid gangrene, so sickening, so 
 
 offensive, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 4 3 
 
 While the attendant stands behind aside 
 me holding the tray and pail. 
 
 I am faithful, I do not give out, 
 
 The fractured thigh, the knee, the wound 
 
 in the abdomen, 
 These and more I dress with impassive 
 
 hand, (yet deep in my breast a 
 
 fire, a burning flame.) 
 
 Thus in silence in dreams' projections, 
 
 Returning, resuming, I thread my way 
 through the hospitals, 
 
 The hurt and wounded I pacify with 
 soothing hand, 
 
 I sit by the restless all the dark night, 
 some are so young, 
 
 Some suffer so much, I recall the experi- 
 ence sweet and sad, 
 
 (Many a soldier's loving arms about this 
 neck have cross'd and rested, 
 
 Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these 
 bearded lips.) 
 
44 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 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 — electric 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, reverbe- 
 rates round me, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 45 
 
 As your ranks, your immortal ranks, re- 
 turn, return from the battles, 
 
 As the muskets of the young men yet 
 lean over their shoulders, 
 
 \s I look on the bayonets bristling over 
 their shoulders, 
 
 As those slanted bayonets, whole forests 
 of them appearing in the dis- 
 tance, approach and pass on, re- 
 turning homeward, 
 
 Moving with steady motion, swaying to 
 and fro to the right and left, 
 
 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 cur- 
 rents convulsive, 
 
 Let them scorch and blister out of my 
 chants when you are gone, 
 
 Let them identify you to the future in 
 these songs. 
 
MEM< >RIES OF LIN< '< >LN 
 
 ASHES OF SOLDIERS. 
 
 Ashes of soldiers South or North, 
 As I muse retrospective 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, 
 
 Prom their graves in the trenches as- 
 cending, 
 
 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 trumpeters, 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 47 
 
 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 reveille 
 at dawn, 
 
 Nor the long roll alarming the camp, 
 nor even the muffled beat for a 
 burial, 
 
 Nothing from you this time drum- 
 mers bearing my warlike drums. 
 
 But aside from these and the marts of 
 wealth and the crowded prom- 
 enade, 
 
 Admitting around me comrades close 
 unseen by the rest and voiceless, 
 
 The slain elate and alive again, the dust 
 and debris alive, 
 
4S MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 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, 
 
 comrades ! 
 Perfume from battle-fields rising, up 
 
 from the fcetor arising. 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 49 
 
 Perfume therefore my chant, love, 
 
 immortal love, 
 Give me to bathe the memories of all 
 
 dead soldiers, 
 Shroud them, embalm them, cover their 
 
 all over with tender pride. 
 
 Perfume all — make all wholesome, 
 Make these ashes to nourish and blos- 
 som, 
 love, solve all, fructify all with the 
 last chemistry. 
 
 Give me exhaustless, make me a foun- 
 tain, 
 
 That I exhale love from me wherever 
 I go like a moist perennial dew, 
 
 For the ashes of all dead soldiers South 
 or North. 
 
 PENSIVE ON HER DEAD GAZING. 
 
 Pensive on her dead gazing I heard the 
 Mother of All, 
 
50 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 Desperate on the torn bodies, on the 
 forms covering the battle-fields 
 gazing, 
 
 (As the last gun ceased, but the scent 
 of the powder-smoke linger 'd,) 
 
 As she caird to her earth with mourn* 
 ful voice while she stalk'd, 
 
 Absorb them well my earth, she cried, 
 I charge you lose not my sons, 
 lose not an atom, 
 
 And you streams absorb them well, tak- 
 ing their dear blood, 
 
 And you local spots, and you airs that 
 swim above lightly impalpable, 
 
 And all you essences of soil and growth, 
 and you my rivers' depths, 
 
 And you mountain sides, and the woods 
 where my dear children's blood 
 trickling redden'd, 
 
 And you trees down in your roots to be- 
 queath to all future trees. 
 
 My dead absorb or South or North — my 
 young men's bodies absorb, and 
 their precious, precious blood, 
 
. MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 51 
 
 Which holding in trust for me faith- 
 fully back again give me many 
 a year hence, 
 
 In unseen essence and odor of surface 
 and grass, centuries hence, 
 
 In blowing airs from the fields back 
 again give me my darlings, give 
 my immortal heroes, 
 
 Exhale me them centuries hence, 
 breathe me their breath, let not 
 an atom be lost, 
 
 O years and graves ! air and soil ! 
 my dead, an aroma sweet! 
 
 Exhale them perennial sweet death, 
 years, centuries hence. 
 
 CAMPS OF GREEN. 
 
 Not alone those camps of white, old com- 
 rades of the wars, 
 
 When as order'd forward, after a long 
 march, 
 
 Footsore and weary, soon as the light 
 lessens we halt for the night, 
 
52 MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 
 
 Some of us so fatigued carrying the gun 
 and knapsack, dropping asleep in 
 our tracks, 
 
 Othtrs pitching the little tents, and the 
 fires lit up begin to sparkle, 
 
 Outposts of pickets posted surrounding 
 alert through the dark, 
 
 And a word provided for countersign, 
 careful for safety, 
 
 Till to the call of the drummers at day- 
 break loudly beating the drums, 
 
 We rise up ref resh'd, the night and sleep 
 pass'd over, and resume our jour- 
 ney, 
 
 Or proceed to battle. 
 
 Lo, the camps of the tents of green, 
 Which the days of peace keep filling, 
 
 and the days of war keep filling, 
 With a mystic army, (is it too order'd 
 
 forward? is it too only halting 
 
 awhile, 
 Till night and sleep pass over?) 
 
MEMORIES OF LINCOLN 58 
 
 Now in those camps of green, in their 
 
 tents dotting the world, 
 In the parents, children, husbands, 
 
 wives in them, in the old and 
 
 young, 
 Sleeping under the sunlight, sleeping 
 
 under the moonlight, content and 
 
 silent there at last, 
 Behold the mighty bivouac-field and 
 
 waiting camp of all, 
 Of the corps and generals all, and the 
 
 President over the corps and gen- 
 erals all, 
 And of each of us soldiers, and of 
 
 each and all in the ranks we 
 
 fought, 
 (There without hatred we all, all meet.) 
 
 For presently soldiers, we too camp 
 
 in our place in the bivouac-camps 
 
 of green, 
 But w r e need not provide for outposts, 
 
 nor word for the countersign, 
 Nor drummer to beat the morning 
 
 drum. 
 
:, I TEN CENT POCKET SEKIES 
 
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 246 
 
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 316 Prometheus Bound. 
 
 247 
 
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 Midsummer Night's 
 
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 Dream. 
 
 308 She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 252 
 
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 Venice. 
 
 134 The Misanthrope. 
 
 
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 2 53 
 
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 80 Pillars of Society. 
 
 
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 255 
 
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 54 Importance of Being 
 
 257 
 
 King Henry IV. 
 
 Earnest. 0. Wilde. 
 
 
 Part I. 
 
 8 Lady Windermere's 
 
 258 
 
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 Part II. 
 
 131 Redemption. Tolstoi. 
 
 249 
 
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 99 Tartuffe. Moliere 
 
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 Part I. 
 
 226 Prof. Bernhardt 
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 260 
 
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 262 
 
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 A. F. Giles. 
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 Essay on Swinburne. 
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 201 Satan and the Saints. 
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 123 Life of Madame Du 
 
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 174 Trial of William Penn. 
 
 :KET series 57 
 
 Humor 
 
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 Mark Twain. 
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 Idle Fellow. Jerome. 
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 231 Eight Humorous 
 
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 Shelley. 
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 Voltaire. 
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 and Women of Genius. 
 
58 
 
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 186 How I Wrote "The 
 
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 Portuguese Nun. 
 
 26 On Going to Church. 
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 61 Tolstoi's Essays. 
 
 176 Four Essays. 
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 76 The Prince of Peace. 
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 Ingersoll. 
 
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 Oscar Wilde. 
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 293 Francois Villon: 
 
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 Maxims and Epigrams 
 
 179 Gems from Emerson. 
 7 7 What Great Men Have 
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 310 The Wisdom of 
 
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 56 Wisdom of Ingerjoll. 
 
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 168 Epigrams. Oscar 
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 180 Epigrams of George 
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 155 Maxims. Napoleon. 
 
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 113 Proverbs of England. 
 
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 115 Proverbs of Japan. 
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 117 Proverbs of Italy. 
 
 118 Proverbs of Russia. 
 
 119 Proverbs of Ireland. 
 
 120 Proverbs of Spain. 
 
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 159 A Guide to Plato. Du- 
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 322 The Buddhist Philoso- 
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 347 A Guide to Stoicism. 
 
 124 Theory of Reincarna- 
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 157 Plato's Republic. 
 62 Schopenhauer's Essp;s. 
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 4 Age of Reason. Thomas 
 
 Paine. 
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 96 Dialogues of Plato. 
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 Schopenhauer. 
 
 211 Idea of God in Na- 
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 212 Life and Character. 
 Goethe. 
 
 200 Ignorant Philosopher. 
 
 Voltaire. 
 101 Thoughts of Pascal. 
 210 The Stoic Philosophy. 
 
 Prof. G. Murray. 
 2 24 God: Known nnd 
 
 Unl now ii. H>jt icr. 
 
60 
 
 TEN CENT POCKET SERIES 
 
 19 Nietzsche: Who He 
 
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 204 Sun Worship and 
 
 Later Beliefs. 
 
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 H. M. Tichenor. 
 184 Primitive Beliefs. 
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 152 The Kasidah. Burton. 
 
 317 L 'Allegro and Other 
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 283 Courtship of Miles 
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 282 Rime of Ancient Mar- 
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 297 Poems. Robert 
 Southey. 
 
 329 Dante's Inferno, 
 Volume I. 
 
 330 Dante's Inferno, 
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 306 A Shropshire Lad. 
 Housman. 
 Poems of Robert 
 Burns. 
 
 Rubaiyat of Omar 
 Khayyam. 
 Walt Whitman's 
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 284 
 
 73 
 
 2 Wilde's Ballad of 
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 32 Poe's Poems. 
 164 Michael Angelo's 
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 71 Poems of Evolution. 
 146 Snow-Bound. Pied 
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 9 Great English Poems. 
 79 Enoch Arden. 
 
 Tennyson. 
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 Macaulay. 
 173 Vision of Sir Launfal. 
 
 Lowell. 
 22 2 The Vampire and 
 
 Other Poems. Kipling. 
 237 Prose Poems. 
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 3 21 A History of Evolution. 
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 327 The Ice Age. Finger. 
 
 217 The Puzzle of Person- 
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 Psycho-Analysis. 
 Fielding. 
 
 190 Psycho-Analysis — The 
 Key to Human Be- 
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 140 Biology and Spiritual 
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 2 75 The Building of the 
 Earth. C. L. Fenton. 
 
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 61 
 
 49 Three Lectures on 
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 42 Origin of the Human 
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 238 Reflections on Modern 
 
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 202 Survival of the Fittest. 
 
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 191 Evolution vs. Religion. 
 
 Balmforth. 
 133 Electricity Made Plain. 
 92 Hypnotism Made 
 
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 53 Inserts and Men: 
 
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 189 Eugenics. Havelock 
 
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 Series of Debates 
 
 11 Debate on Religion. 
 39 Did Jesus Ever Live? 
 130 Controversy on Chris- 
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 43 Marriage and Divorce. 
 Horace Greeley and 
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 208 Debate on Birth Con- 
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 129 Rome or Reason. 
 
 Ingersoll and Manning. 
 
 122 Spiritualism. Conan 
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 171 Has Life Any Meaning? 
 Frank Harris and 
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 200 Capitalism vs. Social- 
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 13 Is Free Will a Fact or 
 a Fallacy? 
 
 234 McNeal-Sinclair De- 
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 141 Would Practice of 
 Christ's Teachings 
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 and Ward. 
 
 Miscellaneouc 
 
 326 Hints on Writing 
 
 Short Stories. Finger. 
 192 Book of Synonyms. 
 
 25 Rhyming Dictionary. 
 
 78 How to Be an Orator. 
 
 82 Common Faults in 
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 127 What Expectant 
 
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 81 Care of the Baby. 
 
 136 Child Training. 
 
 137 Home Nursing. 
 
 , 14 What Every Girl Should 
 Know. Mrs. Sanger. 
 34 Case for Birth Control 
 91 Manhood: Facts of 
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 83 Marriage: Past, 
 Present and Future. 
 Besant. 
 
 74 On Threshold of Sex. 
 98 How to Love. 
 172 Evolution of Love. 
 
 Ellen Key. 
 203 Rights of Women. 
 
 Havelock Ellis. 
 209 Aspects of Birth Con- 
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 Sociological. 
 93 How to Live 100 
 
 Years. 
 167 Plutarch's Rules of 
 
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 320 The Prince. 
 
 Machiavelli.