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Prayer of Columbus

About This Item

  • Title: Prayer of Columbus
  • Date: March 1874
  • Creator(s): Walt Whitman
  • Whitman Archive ID: per.00013
  • Source: Harper's Monthly Magazine 48 (March 1874): 524-525. Our transcription is based on a digital image of an original issue. For a description of the editorial rationale behind our treatment of the periodical poems, see our statement of editorial policy.
  • Contributors to digital file: Elizabeth Lorang April Lambert Heather Morton Leslie Ianno Ramon Guerra Susan Belasco
  • Cite this page: Whitman, Walt. "Prayer of Columbus." The Walt Whitman Archive. Gen. ed. Matt Cohen, Ed Folsom, & Kenneth M. Price. Accessed 12 November 2024. <http://www.whitmanarchive.org>.
  • Source File: per.00013.xml (TEI)
per.00013.001per.00013.002

PRAYER OF COLUMBUS.1

BY WALT WHITMAN. [IT was near the close of his indomitable and pious life—on his last voyage, when nearly 70 years of age—that Columbus, to save his two remaining ships from foundering in the Caribbean Sea in a terrible storm, had to run them ashore on the Island of Jamaica—where, laid up for a long and miserable year—1503—he was taken very sick, had several relapses, his men revolted, and death seemed daily imminent; though he was eventually rescued, and sent home to Spain to die, unrecognized, neglected and in want....It is only asked, in preparation and atmosphere for the following lines, that the bare authentic facts be recalled and realized, and nothing contributed by the fancy. See, the Antilliean Island, with its florid skies and rich foliage and scenery, the waves beating the solitary sands, and the hulls of the ships in the distance. See, the figure of the great Admiral, walking the beach, as a stage, in this sublimest tragedy—for what tragedy, what poem, so piteous and majestic as the real scene?—and hear him uttering—as his mystical and religious soul surely uttered, the ideas following—perhaps, in their equivalents, the very words.] A BATTER'D, wreck'd old man, Thrown on this savage shore, far, far from home, Pent by the sea, and dark rebellious brows, twelve dreary months, Sore, stiff with many toils, sicken'd and nigh to death, I take my way along the island's edge, Venting a heavy heart. I am too full of woe! Haply I may not live another day; I can not rest, O God—I can not eat or drink or sleep, Till I put forth myself, my prayer, once more to Thee, Breathe, bathe myself once more in Thee—commune with Thee, Report myself once more to Thee. Thou knowest my years entire, my life, (My long and crowded life of active work—not adoration merely;) Thou knowest the prayers and vigils of my youth; Thou knowest my manhood's solemn and visionary meditations; Thou knowest how, before I commenced, I devoted all to come to Thee; Thou knowest I have in age ratified all those vows, and strictly kept them; Thou knowest I have not once lost nor faith nor ecstasy in Thee; (In shackles, prison'd, in disgrace, repining not, Accepting all from Thee—as duly come from Thee.) All my emprises have been fill'd with Thee, My speculations, plans, begun and carried on in thoughts of Thee, Sailing the deep, or journeying the land for Thee; Intentions, purports, aspirations mine—leaving results to Thee. O I am sure they really came from Thee! The urge, the ardor, the unconquerable will, The potent, felt, interior command, stronger than words, A message from the Heavens, whispering to me even in sleep, These sped me on. By me, and these, the work so far accomplish'd, (for what has been, has been;) By me Earth's elder, cloy'd and stifled lands, uncloy'd, unloos'd; By me the hemispheres rounded and tied—the unknown to the known. The end I know not—it is all in Thee; Or small, or great, I know not—haply, what broad fields, what lands; Haply, the brutish, measureless, human undergrowth I know, Transplanted there, may rise to stature, knowledge worthy Thee; Haply the swords I know may there indeed be turn'd to reaping tools; Haply the lifeless cross I know—Europe's dead cross—may bud and blossom there. One effort more—my altar this bleak sand: That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted, With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee, (Light rare, untellable—lighting the very light! Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages!) For that, O God—be it my latest word—here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralyzed—I thank Thee. My terminus near, The clouds already closing in upon me, The voyage balk'd—the course disputed, lost, I yield my ships to Thee Steersman unseen! henceforth the helms are Thine; Take Thou command—what to my petty skill Thy navigation? My hands, my limbs grow nerveless; My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd; Let the old timbers part—I will not part! I will cling fast to Thee, O God, though the waves buffet me; Thee, Thee, at least, I know. Is it the prophet's thought I speak, or am I raving? What do I know of life? what of myself? I know not even my own work, past or present; Dim, ever-shifting guesses of it spread before me, Of newer, better worlds, their mighty parturition, Mocking, perplexing me. And these things I see suddenly—what mean they? As if some miracle, some hand divine unseal'd my eyes, Shadowy, vast shapes, smile through the air and sky, And on the distant waves sail countless ships, And anthems in new tongues I hear saluting me.

Notes

1. Reprinted in the "Two Rivulets" section of Two Rivulets (1876). [back]

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