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O Captain! My Captain!
(This poem was written in memory of Abraham Lincoln.)
| O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done, |
| The ship has weathered 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, O heart! heart! heart! |
| O the bleeding drops of red, |
| Where on the deck my Captain lies, |
| Fallen, cold and dead. |
| O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells; |
| Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, |
| For you bouquets and ribboned 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. |
| My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; |
| My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will; |
| The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; |
| From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; |
| Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! |
| But I, with mournful tread, |
| Walk the deck my Captain lies, |
| Fallen, cold and dead. |
| Walt Whitman. |
A Poet's Prophecy
| For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, |
| Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; |
| Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, |
| Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; |
| Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew |
| From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; |
| Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, |
| With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm; |
| Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battleflags were furl'd |
| In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. |
| There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, |
| And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. |
| Tennyson, "Locksley Hall," 1842. |
The Landing of the Pilgrims
| The breaking waves dashed high |
| On a stern and rock-bound coast, |
| And the woods against a stormy sky |
| Their giant branches tossed; |
| And the heavy night hung dark |
| The hills and waters o'er, |
| When a band of exiles moored their bark |
| On the wild New England shore. |
| Not as the conqueror comes, |
| They, the true-hearted, came— |
| Not with the roll of the stirring drums, |
| And the trumpet that sings of fame; |
| Not as the flying come, |
| In silence and in fear; |
| They shook the depths of the desert's gloom |
| With their hymns of lofty cheer. |
| Amidst the storms they sang; |
| And the stars heard, and the sea; |
| And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang |
| To the anthem of the free. |
| The ocean eagle soared |
| From his nest by the white wave's foam; |
| And the rocking pines of the forest roared— |
| This was their welcome home! |
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