On, on the same, ye jocund twain!

My life and recitative, containing birth, youth, mid-age years,

Fitful as motley-tongues of flame, inseparably twined and merged in

one--combining all,

My single soul--aims, confirmations, failures, joys--Nor single soul alone,

I chant my nation's crucial stage, (America's, haply humanity's)--

the trial great, the victory great,

A strange eclaircissement of all the masses past, the eastern world,

the ancient, medieval,

Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats--here

at the west a voice triumphant--justifying all,

A gladsome pealing cry--a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction;

I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the

best sooner than the worst)--And now I chant old age,

(My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer's,

autumn's spread,

I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses

winter-cool'd the same;)

As here in careless trill, I and my recitatives, with faith and love,

wafting to other work, to unknown songs, conditions,

On, on ye jocund twain! continue on the same!