Nor stayed her: and forthwith the frothy tide
Of interrupted wassail roared along;

But Biörn, the son of Heriulf, sat apart
Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire,
Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen.
"A ship," he muttered, "is a winged bridge
That leadeth every man to man's desire,
And ocean the wide gate to manful luck;"
And then with that resolve his heart was bent,
Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe
Of day and night, across the unpathwayed seas
Shot the brave prow that cut on Vinland sands
The first rune in the Saga of the West.

1 Read the poem "Opportunity" by John J. Ingalls on page 93.

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE

NIGHT

WALT WHITMAN

Walt Whitman is probably writing from his experience as a voluntary nurse in hospitals and on the field during the Civil War. Whitman's poetry is peculiar, but if we read it for the spirit pervading it, we shall not fail to find much in it. Read in connection with this poem "The Warble for Lilac-Time" and "O Captain! My Captain!"

VIGIL strange I kept on the field one night;

When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,

One look I but
gave which your dear eyes
with a look I shall never forget,

return'd

One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev'd, to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold, dear comrade, found your body, son of responding kisses (never again on earth

responding),

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade-not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited, Ending my strange vigil with that, vigil of night and battlefield dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on earth responding)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten'd,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

THEODORE O'HARA

"The Bivouac of the Dead" has reference to the same battle referred to in Whittier's poem, “The Angels of Buena Vista" (see page 43). The American forces were far outnumbered in this battle: 23,000 Mexicans to 4691 Americans. The Northern troops lost over 700 in killed and wounded. In their honor, O'Hara wrote his poem.

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighboring troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel

The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged

O'er all that stricken plain,