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

thrills,

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores acrowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 10 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 nor will,

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

15

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object 20

won;

Exult O shores, and ring ✪ bells!

But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

25

5

DAREST THOU NOW O SOUL

Darest thou now, O soul,

Walk out with me toward the unknown region,

Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?

No map there, nor guide,

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,

Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

10 I know it not, O soul!

Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,

All waits undreamed of in that region, that inaccessible land.

Till when the tie is loosened,

15 All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.

Then we burst forth, we float,

In Time and Space, O soul! prepared for them,

20 Equal, equipped at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfill, O soul!

THEODORE O'HARA

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their pluméd heads are bowed;

20

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,

Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,

25

Are free from anguish now.