| GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary; | |
| The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;) | |
| Up the path you have follow’d me well, spite of your hundred and extra years; | |
| You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done; | |
| Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me. | 5 |
| |
| Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means; | |
| On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising; | |
| There is the camp—one regiment departs to-morrow; | |
| Do you hear the officers giving the orders? | |
| Do you hear the clank of the muskets? | 10 |
| |
| Why, what comes over you now, old man? | |
| Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively? | |
| The troops are but drilling—they are yet surrounded with smiles; | |
| Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women; | |
| While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down; | 15 |
| Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze, | |
| O’er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between. | |
| But drill and parade are over—they march back to quarters; | |
| Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! | |
| |
| As wending, the crowds now part and disperse—but we, old man, | 20 |
| Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must remain; | |
| You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. | |
| |
THE CENTENARIAN.
When I clutch’d your hand, it was not with terror; | |
| But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side, | |
| And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran, | 25 |
| And where tents are pitch’d, and wherever you see, south and south-east and south-west, | |
| Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, | |
| And along the shores, in mire (now fill’d over), came again, and suddenly raged, | |
| As eighty-five years agone, no mere parade receiv’d with applause of friends, | |
| But a battle, which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it, | 30 |
| Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. | |
| |
| Aye, this is the ground; | |
| My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves; | |
| The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear; | |
| Rude forts appear again, the old hoop’d guns are mounted; | 35 |
| I see the lines of rais’d earth stretching from river to bay; | |
| I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes: | |
| Here we lay encamp’d—it was this time in summer also. | |
| |
| As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declaration; | |
| It was read here—the whole army paraded—it was read to us here; | 40 |
| By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the middle—he held up his unsheath’d sword, | |
| It glitter’d in the sun in full sight of the army. | |
| |
| ’Twas a bold act then; | |
| The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had sent them from over the sea; | |
| We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor, | 45 |
| And the transports, swarming with soldiers. | |
| |
| A few days more, and they landed—and then the battle. | |
| |
| Twenty thousand were brought against us, | |
| A veteran force, furnish’d with good artillery. | |
| |
| I tell not now the whole of the battle; | 50 |
| But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order’d forward to engage the red-coats; | |
| Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march’d, | |
| And how long and how well it stood, confronting death. | |
| |
| Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death? | |
| It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong, | 55 |
| Rais’d in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the General. | |
| |
| Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus’ waters; | |
| Till of a sudden, unlook’d for, by defiles through the woods, gain’d at night, | |
| The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns, | |
| That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy’s mercy. | 60 |
| |
| The General watch’d them from this hill; | |
| They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment; | |
| Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle; | |
| But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! | |
| |
| It sickens me yet, that slaughter! | 65 |
| I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General; | |
| I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. | |
| |
| Meanwhile the British maneuver’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle; | |
| But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle. | |
| |
| We fought the fight in detachments; | 70 |
| Sallying forth, we fought at several points—but in each the luck was against us; | |
| Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back to the works on this hill; | |
| Till we turn’d, menacing, here, and then he left us. | |
| |
| That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong; | |
| Few return’d—nearly all remain in Brooklyn. | 75 |
| |
| That, and here, my General’s first battle; | |
| No women looking on, nor sunshine to bask in—it did not conclude with applause; | |
| Nobody clapp’d hands here then. | |
| |
| But in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill rain, | |
| Wearied that night we lay, foil’d and sullen; | 80 |
| While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord, off against us encamp’d, | |
| Quite within hearing, feasting, klinking wine-glasses together over their victory. | |
| |
| So, dull and damp, and another day; | |
| But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, | |
| Silent as a ghost, while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated. | 85 |
| |
| I saw him at the river-side, | |
| Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; | |
| My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over; | |
| And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time. | |
| |
| Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom; | 90 |
| Many no doubt thought of capitulation. | |
| |
| But when my General pass’d me, | |
| As he stood in his boat, and look’d toward the coming sun, | |
| I saw something different from capitulation. | |
| |
TERMINUS.
Enough—the Centenarian’s story ends; | 95 |
| The two, the past and present, have interchanged; | |
| I myself, as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking. | |
| |
| And is this the ground Washington trod? | |
| And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d, | |
| As resolute in defeat, as other generals in their proudest triumphs? | 100 |
| |
| It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good; | |
| I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward; | |
| I must preserve that look, as it beam’d on you, rivers of Brooklyn. | |
| |
| See! as the annual round returns, the phantoms return; | |
| It is the 27th of August, and the British have landed; | 105 |
| The battle begins, and goes against us—behold! through the smoke, Washington’s face; | |
| The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept the enemy; | |
| They are cut off—murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them; | |
| Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, | |
| Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds, | 110 |
| In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears. | |
| |
| Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners supposed; | |
| Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin’d to me at sunrise with something besides the sun. | |
| |
| Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an encampment very old; | |
| Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade. | 115 |
