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74 How he followed with them, and tacked with them—
 * and would not give it up,

How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gowned women looked when
 * boated from the side of their prepared graves,

How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick,
 * and the sharp-lipped unshaved men,

All this I swallow—it tastes good—I like it well—
 * it becomes mine,

I am the man—I suffered—I was there.

The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother, condemned for a witch, burnt with dry
 * wood, her children gazing on,

The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the
 * the fence, blowing, covered with sweat,

The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck
 * —the murderous buck-shot and the bullets,

All these I feel or am.

I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the
 * dogs,

Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack
 * the marksmen,

I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinned
 * with the ooze of my skin,

I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unmlling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears, and beat me violently over the
 * head with whip-stocks.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels—I
 * myself become the wounded person,