BOOK I. Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing.
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles, The making of perfect soldiers. Bear forth to them folded my love, dear mariners, for you I fold it here in every leaf; Speed on my book!
To a Historian You who celebrate bygones, Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races, the life that has exhibited itself, Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers and priests, I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is in himself in his own rights, Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the great pride of man in himself, Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be, I project the history of the future.
To Thee Old Cause To thee old cause! Thou peerless, passionate, good cause, Thou stern, remorseless, sweet idea, Deathless throughout the ages, races, lands, After a strange sad war, great war for thee, I think all war through time was really fought, and ever will be really fought, for thee, These chants for thee, the eternal march of thee. A war O soldiers not for itself alone, Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in this book. Thou orb of many orbs!
Thou seething principle! Around the idea of thee the war revolving, With all its angry and vehement play of causes, With vast results to come for thrice a thousand years, These recitatives for thee,—my book and the war are one, Merged in its spirit I and mine, as the contest hinged on thee, As a wheel on its axis turns, this book unwitting to itself, Around the idea of thee.
