THE SCHOLAR GIPSY

But O heart ! heart ! heart !
O the bleeding drops of red !

Where on the deck my Captain lies.
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle

trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the

shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces

turning ;
Here, Captain ! dear father !

This arm beneath your head ! 10

It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor

will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage

closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object

won ;

Exult, O shores ! and ring, O be] Is !
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead. ao

WALT WHITMAN

THE SCHOLAR GIPSY
[There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who
was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there ; and at last
to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these
extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage,
he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they
discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty
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