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6

Their eyes upturned and begged and burned

In brimstone lakes, and a Hand above Beat back the hands that upward yearned—' 'Nay!' quoth Love

'Yea, yea, sweet Prince; thyself shalt see, Wilt thou but down this slope with me; 'Tis palpable,' whispered Sense.

At the foot of the hill a living rill Shone, and the lilies shone white above; 'But now 'twas black, 'twas a river, this rill,'

('Black?' quoth Love)

'Ay, black, but lo! the lilies grow, And yon-side where was woe, was woe,Where the rabble of souls,' cried Sense, 'Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn, Thrust back in the brimstone from aboveIs banked of violet, rose, and fern:' 'How?' quoth Love:

'For lakes of pain, yon pleasant plain Of woods and grass and yellow grain Doth ravish the soul and sense:

And never a sigh beneath the sky,

And folk that smile and gaze above-'

'But saw'st thou here, with thine own eye, Hell?' quoth Love.

'I saw true hell with mine own eye, True hell, or light hath told a lie,

True, verily,' quoth stout Sense.

Then Love rode round and searched the

ground,

The caves below, the hills above;

'But I cannot find where thou hast found Hell,' quoth Love.

There, while they stood in a green wood And marvelled still on Ill and Good,

Came suddenly Minister Mind. 'In the heart of sin doth hell begin: 'Tis not below, 'tis not above, It lieth within, it lieth within:' ('Where?' quoth Love)

'I saw a man sit by a corse;

Hell's in the murderer's breast: remorse! Thus clamored his mind to his mind: Not fleshly dole is the sinner's goal, Hell's not below, nor yet above, 'Tis fixed in the ever-damned soul-' 'Fixed?' quoth Love

'Fixed: follow me, would'st thou but see: He weepeth under yon willow tree,

Fast chained to his corse,' quoth Mind. Full soon they passed, for they rode fast, Where the piteous willow bent above. 'Now shall I see at last, at last,

Hell,' quoth Love.

There when they came Mind suffered shame:

'These be the same and not the same,' A-wondering whispered Mind.

Lo, face by face two spirits pace

Where the blissful willow waves above: One saith: 'Do me a friendly grace-' ('Grace' quoth Love)

'Read me two Dreams that linger long, Dim as returns of old-time song

That flicker about the mind.

I dreamed (how deep in mortal sleep!)
I struck thee dead, then stood above,
With tears that none but dreamers weep;'
'Dreams,' quoth Love;

'In dreams, again, I plucked a flower
That clung with pain and stung with power,
Yea, nettled me, body and mind.'

''Twas the nettle of sin, 'twas medicine;
No need nor seed of it here Above;
In dreams of hate true loves begin.'
'True,' quoth Love.

'Now strange,' quoth Sense, and 'Strange,'
quoth Mind,

'We saw it, and yet 'tis hard to find,

-But we saw it,' quoth Sense and Mind.
Stretched on the ground, beautiful-crowned
Of the piteous willow that wreathed above,
'But I cannot find where ye have found
Hell,' quoth Love.

812

BRET HARTE

[1839-1902]

THE REVEILLE

HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;
Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick alarming drum,-
Saying, 'Come,
Freemen, come!

Ere your heritage be wasted,' said the quick alarming drum.

Let me of my heart take counsel:

War is not of life the sum;

Who shall stay and reap the harvest

When the autumn days shall come?
But the drum

Echoed, 'Come!

Death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the solemn-sound

ing drum.

'But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?
What if conquest, subjugation,

Even greater ills become?'
But the drum

Answered,Come!

You must do the sum to prove it,' said the Yankee-answering drum.

'What if, 'mid cannons' thunder,

Whistling shot and bursting bomb,

When my brothers fall around me,

Should

my heart grow

cold and numb?'

But the drum

Answered, 'Come!

Better there in death united, than in life a recreant,-Come!'

Thus they answered,-hoping, fearing,
Some in faith, and doubting some,

Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,

Said, 'My chosen people, come!'

Then the drum,

Lo! was dumb.

For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 'Lord, we come!'

813

WALT WHITMAN

[1819-1892]

ONE'S-SELF I SING

ONE'S-SELF I sing, a simple separate person,

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,

Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse-I say the Form complete is worthier far,

The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,

Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.

814

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 the 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!

Over the traffic of cities-over the rumble 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 speculatorswould 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 expostulation,

Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,

Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,

So strong you thump O terrible drums-so loud you bugles blow.

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