Poems by Walt Whitman
"Poems by Walt Whitman."
Lloyd's Weekly London Newspaper,
19 April 1868, p. 8.
Englishmen know nothing of Walt (Walter) Whitman, except the occasional
brilliant scraps which
English papers copy from their American contemporaries. Englishmen
know nothing - excepting the
very few cultivated Englishmen who have crossed the Atlantic, met the
author, and learned to admire him and his books. Mr. William Michael Rossetti
has been for some time what may be called a
disciple of Whitman. If he did not absolutely discover him, he was
at least one of the very first who
heard of the discovery. Here is the result: a volume, a selection of
Mr. Whitman's poems, containing
probably one-half of what he has written, and that half not necessarily
the best. And here it must be said, that having read the volume with
great interest - for Rumour had been busy - and with deep
gratification, for the present we must suffer description to assume
the place of criticism, since one
reading is quite insufficient, and time is required in order that the
strangeness of the beauty may be
absorbed and assimilated, before any proper estimate of it could be
formed. It is strange, at the
outset, to find that the other half of the author's writings is so
disfigured by violation of morality and
decency, as to be rather too much for the English reader; and, stranger
still, to hear Mr. Rossetti
praying for a complete edition. As far as can be made out, Mr. Whitman
considers everything noble, because of divine origin, and everything a
fair subject for words. Therefore he goes on about matters fleshly, spiritual,
and mixed - always calling spades spades, in a fashion not to be tolerated
by ordinary nerves. It will be observed that the volume is called "Poems,"
and it is certain that not one man in a thousand would so describe them.
And yet we can say that there is not one page which is
not thoroughly poetic. The simple thing is, not that there is no rhyme
- which is, of course, unessential; but that there is no rhythm, no measure,
no attempt at complying with any of the universally known demands of versification,
and which we are still simple enough to consider one of the absolute
demands of poetry. A skin of kid is not a kid glove. This is a dilemma
which the ordinary English reader will find difficult to get over; but
he must read Mr. Rossetti's prefatory
sketch, which is in every way an excellent piece of writing from an
accomplished man, and which
seems to err only on the side of absolute infatuation. Mr. Rossetti
insists that it must be taken as an
altogether new poetry: as something as distinctively American as Niagara
and the Rocky Mountains,
and having no more in common with English poetry than Niagara has with
the dripping well at
Hastings, or the Rocky Mountains with Primrose-hill! A specimen or
two of these strange productions shall be given; but it is proper to say
that they are amongst the most musical we can find, and the easiest to
understand. The author is always mystical - always democratic -always speaking
in ghastly praise of death. But he roams over every or any kind of subject,
and seems always to be in "communion with nature." He chatters with the
birds, and is sometimes as incomprehensible. And he
hurls large sayings at the mountains, who echo back peal after peal,
and all of which enthusiasts are
humbly entreated to suppose that the author understands! Here is an
exquisitely musical little piece,
the commencement of President Lincoln's Funeral Hymn: -
When lilacs last in the door-yard
bloomed,
And the great star early drooped
in the western sky in the night,
I mourned.... and yet shall mourn
with ever-returning spring.
O ever-returning spring! trinity
sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and
drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful
night!
O great star disappeared! O the
black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless!
O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud that
will not free my soul!
In the door-yard, fronting an
old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing,
with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising
delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle; and
from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-coloured blossoms,
and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.
In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling
a song.
Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself,
avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat!
Death's outlet song of life -
for well, dear brother, I know,
If thou wast not gifted to sing,
thou would surely die.
Page after page of this curiously poetical "Funeral Hymn" might be reprinted
here, for the reader's
pleasure; but our object is to provoke, not to appease, the taste.
Here is another short piece which is perfect - that is, complete. In it
may be seen with what brilliant novelty the poet can handle the
grimmest possible of all earthly and spiritual subjects: -
TO ONE SHORTLY TO DIE .
From all the rest I single out
you, having a message for you;
You are to die - Let others tell
you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless; but
I love you - there is no escape for you.
Softly I lay my right hand upon
you - you just feel it;
I do not argue - I bend my head
close, and half-envelop it,
I sit quietly by - I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than
parent or neighbour,
I absolve you from all except
yourself, spiritual, bodily - that is eternal -
The corpse you will leave will
be but excrementitious.
The sun bursts through in unlooked
for directions!
Strong thoughts fill you, and
confidence - you smile!
You forget you are sick, as I
forget you are sick.
You do not see the medicines -
you do not mind the weeping friends - I am with you.
I exclude others from you - there
is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate - I congratulate
you.
Let people quarrel as they please about what is or is not poetry; but Mr.
Walt Whitman is beyond all question a poet.
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