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！