O to resume the joys of the soldier! 
To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—­to feel his sympathy! 
To behold his calmness—­to be warm’d in the rays of his smile! 
To go to battle—­to hear the bugles play and the drums beat! 
To hear the crash of artillery—­to see the glittering of the bayonets
    and musket-barrels in the sun!

To see men fall and die and not complain! 
To taste the savage taste of blood—­to be so devilish! 
To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

O the whaleman’s joys!  O I cruise my old cruise again! 
I feel the ship’s motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fanning me,
I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There—­she blows! 
Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest—­we descend,
    wild with excitement,
I leap in the lower’d boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,
We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,
    lethargic, basking,
I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from his
    vigorous arm;
O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,
    running to windward, tows me,
Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,
I see a lance driven through his side, press’d deep, turn’d in the wound,
Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him fast,
As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower and
    narrower, swiftly cutting the water—­I see him die,
He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then
    falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all! 
My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,
My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

O ripen’d joy of womanhood!  O happiness at last! 
I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother,
How clear is my mind—­how all people draw nigh to me! 
What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more
    than the bloom of youth? 
What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?

O the orator’s joys! 
To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the
    ribs and throat,
To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,
To lead America—­to quell America with a great tongue.

O the joy of my soul leaning pois’d on itself, receiving identity through
    materials and loving them, observing characters and absorbing them,
My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,
    reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,
The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and flesh,
My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,
Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes
    which finally see,
Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
    embraces, procreates.