Song of the Broad-Axe
8 I see the European headsman, He stands mask'd, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked arms, And leans on a ponderous axe. (Whom have you slaughter'd lately European headsman? Whose is that blood upon you so wet and sticky?) I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs, I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts, Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown'd ladies, impeach'd ministers, rejected kings, Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains and the rest. I see those who in any land have died for the good cause, The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never run out, (Mind you O foreign kings, O priests, the crop shall never run out.) I see the blood wash'd entirely away from the axe, Both blade and helve are clean, They spirt no more the blood of European nobles, they clasp no more the necks of queens. I see the headsman withdraw and become useless, I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy, I see no longer any axe upon it, I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of my own race, the newest, largest race.
Posted on 03/10/2014, in literature, poetry and tagged 19th Century Poetry, American literature, American poets, Daily Whitman, free verse, Leaves of Grass, literature, poems, poetry, Transcendentalists, Walt Whitman. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.