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 no 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！