[Terminus] Enough, the Centenarian’s story ends, The two, the past and present, have interchanged, I myself as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking. And is this the ground Washington trod? And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d, As resolute in defeat as other generals in their proudest triumphs? I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward, I must preserve that look as it beam’d on you rivers of Brooklyn. See--as the annual round returns the phantoms return, It is the 27th of August and the British have landed, The battle begins and goes against us, behold through the smoke Washington’s face, The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept the enemy, They are cut off, murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them, Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds. In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears. Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners supposed; In the midst of you stands an encampment very old, Stands forever the camp of that dead brigade. Cavalry Crossing a Ford A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, They take a serpentine course, their arms flash in the sun--hark to the musical clank, Behold the silvery river, in it the splashing horses loitering stop to drink, Behold the brown-faced men, each group, each person a picture, the negligent rest on the saddles, Some emerge on the opposite bank, others are just entering the ford--while, Scarlet and blue and snowy white, The guidon flags flutter gayly in the wind. Bivouac on a Mountain Side I see before me now a traveling army halting, Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer, Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high, Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen, The numerous camp-fires scatter’d near and far, some away up on the mountain, The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering, And over all the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out, the eternal stars. An Army Corps on the March With its cloud of skirmishers in advance, With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley, The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on, Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun--the dust-cover’d men, In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground, With artillery interspers’d--the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, As the army corps advances. By the Bivouac’s Fitful Flame