thy splinter’d staff, Or clutch’d to some young color-bearer’s breast with desperate hands, Savagely struggled for, for life or death, fought over long, ‘Mid cannons’ thunder-crash and many a curse and groan and yell, and
    rifle-volleys cracking sharp,
And moving masses as wild demons surging, and lives as nothing risk’d, For thy mere remnant grimed with dirt and smoke and sopp’d in blood, For sake of that, my beauty, and that thou might’st dally as now
    secure up there,
Many a good man have I seen go under.

Now here and these and hence in peace, all thine O Flag! 
And here and hence for thee, O universal Muse! and thou for them! 
And here and hence O Union, all the work and workmen thine! 
None separate from thee—­henceforth One only, we and thou,
(For the blood of the children, what is it, only the blood maternal? 
And lives and works, what are they all at last, except the roads to
    faith and death?)

While we rehearse our measureless wealth, it is for thee, dear Mother,
We own it all and several to-day indissoluble in thee;
Think not our chant, our show, merely for products gross or lucre—­
    it is for thee, the soul in thee, electric, spiritual! 
Our farms, inventions, crops, we own in thee! cities and States in thee! 
Our freedom all in thee! our very lives in thee!

[Book XIV]

} Song of the Redwood-Tree

1
A California song,
A prophecy and indirection, a thought impalpable to breathe as air,
A chorus of dryads, fading, departing, or hamadryads departing,
A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the earth and sky,
Voice of a mighty dying tree in the redwood forest dense.

Farewell my brethren,
Farewell O earth and sky, farewell ye neighboring waters,
My time has ended, my term has come.

Along the northern coast,
Just back from the rock-bound shore and the caves,
In the saline air from the sea in the Mendocino country,
With the surge for base and accompaniment low and hoarse,
With crackling blows of axes sounding musically driven by strong arms,
Riven deep by the sharp tongues of the axes, there in the redwood
    forest dense,
I heard the might tree its death-chant chanting.

The choppers heard not, the camp shanties echoed not,
The quick-ear’d teamsters and chain and jack-screw men heard not,
As the wood-spirits came from their haunts of a thousand years to
    join the refrain,
But in my soul I plainly heard.

Murmuring out of its myriad leaves,
Down from its lofty top rising two hundred feet high,
Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs, out of its foot-thick bark,
That chant of the seasons and time, chant not of the past only but
    the future.