Thunder on! stride on, Democracy! strike with vengeful stroke! And do you rise higher than ever yet, O days, O cities! Crash heavier, heavier yet, O storms! you have done me good; My soul, prepared in the mountains, absorbs your immortal strong nutriment. Long had I walked my cities, my country roads, through farms, only half satisfied; One doubt, nauseous, undulating like a snake, crawled on the ground before me, Continually preceding my steps, turning upon me oft, ironically hissing low; --The cities I loved so well I abandoned and left--I sped to the certainties suitable to me Hungering, hungering, hungering, for primal energies, and Nature's dauntlessness, I refreshed myself with it only, I could relish it only; I waited the bursting forth of the pent fire--on the water and air I waited long. --But now I no longer wait--I am fully satisfied--I am glutted; I have witnessed the true lightning--I have witnessed my cities electric; I have lived to behold man burst forth, and warlike America rise; Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern solitary wilds, No more on the mountains roam, or sail the stormy sea. _BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!_ 1. Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows--through doors--burst like a force of ruthless men, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation; Into the school where the scholar is studying: Leave not the bridegroom quiet--no happiness must he have now with his bride; Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain; So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums--so shrill you bugles blow. 2. Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities--over the rumble of wheels in the streets: Are beds prepared, for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds; No bargainers' bargains by day--no brokers or speculators--Would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums--you bugles wilder blow. 3. Beat! beat! drums!--Blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley--stop for no expostulation; Mind not the timid--mind not the weeper or prayer; Mind not the old man beseeching the young man; Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties; Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump, O terrible drums--so loud you bugles blow. _SONG OF THE BANNER AT DAYBREAK._ POET.