Witness of anguish, brother of slaves, Not with thy price closed the price of thine image: And still Iscariot plies his trade.
The soul, Forever and forever--longer than soil is brown and solid--longer than water ebbs and flows.
Each is not for its own sake, I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake.
In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed perfection. By every life a share or more or less, None born but it is born, conceal'd or unconceal'd the seed is waiting.
Do you not see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan--it is eternal life--it is Happiness.
The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him, The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him--it cannot fail.
I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people _Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banish'd from my true country, I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn._
This is an attempt, incomplete but fairly representative as to sources, to trace the changing view during half a century of Leaves of Grass and its author.
Sonnets and apostrophes in large number addressed to Walt Whitman during the later years of his life, and since his passing 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_