Walt Whitman Yesterday and Today Part 3

This is an attempt, incomplete but fairly representative as to sources, to trace the changing view during half a century of Leaves of Gra.s.s and its author.

V

Sonnets and apostrophes in large number addressed to Walt Whitman during the later years of his life, and since his pa.s.sing away, have appeared in fugitive form in widely separated sources. A selection of these may prove of interest by reason of the names attached, as well as because of the subject:

"The good gray poet" gone! Brave hopeful Walt!

He might not be a singer without fault, And his large rough-hewn rhythm did not chime With dulcet daintiness of time and rhyme.

He was no neater than wide Nature's wild, More metrical than sea winds. Culture's child, Lapped in luxurious laws of line and lilt, Shrank from him shuddering, who was roughly built As cyclopean temples. Yet there rang True music through his rhapsodies, as he sang Of brotherhood, and freedom, love and hope, With strong, wide sympathy which dared to cope With all life's phases, and call nought unclean.

Whilst hearts are generous, and whilst woods are green, He shall find hearers, who in a slack time Of puny bards and pessimistic rhyme, Dared to bid men adventure and rejoice.

His "yawp barbaric" was a human voice; The singer was a man. America Is poorer by a stalwart soul today, And may feel pride that she hath given birth To this stout laureate of old Mother Earth.

--_Punch_

Good-bye, Walt!

Good-bye from all you loved of Earth-- Rock, tree, dumb creature, man and woman-- To you their comrade human.

The last a.s.sault Ends now, and now in some great world has birth A minstrel, whose strong soul finds broader wings, More brave imaginings.

Stars crown the hill-top where your dust shall lie, Even as we say good-bye, Good-bye, old Walt!

--_Edmund Clarence Stedman_

He was in love with truth and knew her near-- Her comrade, not her suppliant on the knee: She gave him wild melodious words to be Made music that should haunt the atmosphere.

She drew him to her bosom, day-long dear, And pointed to the stars and to the sea, And taught him miracles and mystery, And made him master of the rounded year.

Yet one gift did she keep. He looked in vain, Brow-shaded, through the darkness of the mist, Marking a beauty like a wandering breath That beckoned, yet denied his soul a tryst: He sang a pa.s.sion, yet he saw not plain Till kind earth held him and he spake with death.

--_Harrison S. Morris_

Some find thee foul and rank and fetid, Walt, Who cannot tell Arabia from a sty.

Thou followeth Truth, nor feareth, nor doth halt; Truth: and the sole uncleanness is a lie.

--_William Watson_

Presage of strength yet to be, voice of the youngest of Time, Singer of the golden dawn, From thy great message must come light for the bettering days, Joy to the hands that toil, Might to the hopes that droop, Power to the Nation reborn, Poet and master and seer, helper and friend unto men, Truth that shall pa.s.s into the life of us all!

--_Louis J. Block_

Send but a song oversea for us, Heart of their hearts who are free, Heart of their singer to be for us More than our singing can be; Ours, in the tempest at error, With no light but the twilight of terror; Send us a song oversea!

Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and gra.s.ses, And blown as a tree through and through With the winds of the keen mountain pa.s.ses, And tender as sun-smitten dew; Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes The wastes of your limitless lakes, Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue.

O strong-winged soul with prophetic Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song, With tremor of heartstrings magnetic, With thoughts as thunders in throng, With consonant ardours of chords That pierce men's souls as with swords And hale them hearing along.

--_Algernon Swinburne_

Serene, vast head, with silver cloud of hair, Lined on the purple dusk of death A stern medallion, velvet set-- Old Norseman throned, not chained upon thy chair: Thy grasp of hand, thy hearty breath Of welcome thrills me yet As when I faced thee there.

Loving my plain as thou thy sea, Facing the east as thou the west, I bring a handful of gra.s.s to thee, The prairie gra.s.ses I know the best-- Type of the wealth and width of the plain, Strong of the strength of the wind and sleet, Fragrant with sunlight and cool with rain-- I bring it, and lay it low at thy feet, Here by the eastern sea.

--_Hamlin Garland_

I toss upon Thy grave, (After Thy life resumed, after the pause, the backward glance of Death; Hence, hence the vistas on, the march continued, In larger spheres, new lives in paths untrodden, On! till the circle rounded, ever the journey on!) Upon Thy grave,--the vital sod how thrilled as from Thy limbs and breast transpired, Rises the spring's sweet utterance of flowers,-- I toss this sheaf of song, these scattered leaves of love!

For thee, Thy Soul and Body spent for me, --And now still living, now in love, transmitting still Thy Soul, Thy Flesh to me, to all!-- These variant phrases of the long-immortal chant I toss upon Thy grave!

--_George Cabot Lodge_

I am no slender singing bird That feeds on puny garden seed!

My songs are stronger than those heard In ev'ry wind-full, shallow reed!

My pipes are jungle-grown and need A strong man's breath to blow them well; A strong soul's sense to solve their spell And be by their deep music stirred.

My voice speaks not, in lisping notes, The madrigals of lesser minds!

My heart tones thunder from the throats Of throbbing seas and raging winds; And yet, the master-spirit finds The tenderness of mother earth Is there expressed, despite the dearth Of tinkle tunes like dancing motes!

My hand strokes not a golden lyre Threaded with silver--spider spun!

The strings I strike are strands of fire, Strung from Earth's center to the Sun!

Thrilled with pa.s.sion, ev'ry one!

With songs of forest, corn, and vine; Of rus.h.i.+ng water, blood, and wine; Of man's conception and desire!

But listen, comrade! This I say: In all of all I give my heart!

With lover's voice I bid you stay To share with me the better part Of all my days! nights! thoughts! and start With far-spread arms to welcome you, And we will shout a song so true That it shall ring for aye and aye.

--_Ray Clarke Rose_

Your lonely muse, unraimented with rhyme, Her hair unfilleted, her feet unshod, Naked and not ashamed demands of G.o.d No covering for her beauty's youth or prime.

Clad but with thought, as s.p.a.ce is clad with time, Or both with worlds where man and angels plod, She runs in joy, magnificently odd, Ruggedly wreathed with flowers of every clime.

And you to whom her breath is sweeter far Than choicest attar of the martyred rose More deeply feel mortality's unrest Than poets born beneath a happier star, Because the pathos of your grand repose Shows that all earth has throbbed within your breast.

--_Albert Edmund Lancaster_

They say that thou art sick, art growing old, Thou Poet of unconquerable health, With youth far-stretching, through the golden wealth Of autumn, to Death's frostful, friendly cold; The never-blenching eyes, that did behold Life's fair and foul, with measureless content, And gaze ne'er sated, saddened as they bent Over the dying soldier in the fold Of thy large comrade love:--then broke the tear!

War-dream, field-vigil, the bequeathed kiss, Have brought old age to thee; yet, Master, now, Cease not thy song to us; lest we should miss A death-chant of indomitable cheer, Blown as a gale from G.o.d;--Oh, sing it thou!

--_Aaron Leigh_

O pure heart singer of the human frame Divine, whose poesy disdains control Of slavish bonds! each poem is a soul, Incarnate born of thee, and given thy name.

Thy genius is unshackled as a flame That sunward soars, the central light its goal; Thy thoughts are lightnings, and thy numbers roll In Nature's thunders that put art to shame.

Exalter of the land that gave thee birth, Though she insult thy grand gray years with wrong Of infamy, foul-branding thee with scars Of felon-hate, still shalt thou be on earth Revered, and in Fame's firmament of song Thy name shall blaze among the eternal stars!

--_Leonard Wheeler_

O t.i.tan soul, ascend your starry steep, On golden stair, to G.o.ds and storied men!

Ascend! nor care where thy traducers creep.

For what may well be said of prophets, when A world that's wicked comes to call them good?

Ascend and sing! As kings of thought who stood On stormy heights, and held far lights to men, Stand thou, and shout above the tumbled roar, Lest brave s.h.i.+ps drive and break against the sh.o.r.e.

What though thy sounding song be roughly set?