The Patriotic Poems of Walt Whitman

THICK-SPRINKLED BUNTING
Thick-sprinkled bunting! flag of stars!Long yet your road, fateful flag—long yet your
road, and lined with bloody death,For the prize I see at issue at last is the world,All its
ships and shores I see interwoven with your threads greedy banner;Dream'd again the
flags of kings, highest borne, to flaunt unrival'd?O hasten flag of man—O with sure and
steady step, passing highest flags of kings,Walk supreme to the heavens mighty
symbol—run up above them all,Flag of stars! thick-sprinkled bunting!
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!Through the windows—through doors—burst
like a ruthless force,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,Not 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.
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 theycontinue?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.
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.