Banner and Pennant: 
Yet louder, higher, stronger, bard! yet farther, wider cleave!  No longer let our children deem us riches and peace alone, We may be terror and carnage, and are so now,
Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States, (nor
    any five, nor ten,)
Nor market nor depot we, nor money-bank in the city,
But these and all, and the brown and spreading land, and the mines
    below, are ours,
And the shores of the sea are ours, and the rivers great and small, And the fields they moisten, and the crops and the fruits are ours, Bays and channels and ships sailing in and out are ours—­while we over all, Over the area spread below, the three or four millions of square
    miles, the capitals,
The forty millions of people,—­O bard! in life and death supreme, We, even we, henceforth flaunt out masterful, high up above, Not for the present alone, for a thousand years chanting through you, This song to the soul of one poor little child.

Child: 
O my father I like not the houses,
They will never to me be any thing, nor do I like money,
But to mount up there I would like, O father dear, that banner I like,
That pennant I would be and must be.

     Father: 
Child of mine you fill me with anguish,
To be that pennant would be too fearful,
Little you know what it is this day, and after this day, forever, It is to gain nothing, but risk and defy every thing, Forward to stand in front of wars—­and O, such wars!—­what have you
    to do with them? 
With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death?

     Banner: 
Demons and death then I sing,
Put in all, aye all will I, sword-shaped pennant for war, And a pleasure new and ecstatic, and the prattled yearning of children, Blent with the sounds of the peaceful land and the liquid wash of the sea, And the black ships fighting on the sea envelop’d in smoke, And the icy cool of the far, far north, with rustling cedars and pines, And the whirr of drums and the sound of soldiers marching, and the
    hot sun shining south,
And the beach-waves combing over the beach on my Eastern shore,
    and my Western shore the same,
And all between those shores, and my ever running Mississippi with
    bends and chutes,
And my Illinois fields, and my Kansas fields, and my fields of Missouri, The Continent, devoting the whole identity without reserving an atom, Pour in! whelm that which asks, which sings, with all and the yield of all, Fusing and holding, claiming, devouring the whole, No more with tender lip, nor musical labial sound,
But out of the night emerging for good, our voice persuasive no more, Croaking like crows here in the wind.