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barefooted every few minutes now and then in some neighboring black ooze, for unctuous mud- baths to my

Who would suspect that this comic strain proceeded from the author of "My Study Window," and "Among my

I'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake Counting my beads.

I love my fellow-men: the worst I know I would do good to.

Now, when storms of fate o'ercast Darkly my Present and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet

The "In Memoriam" explains itself,—the "Watchman of Ephriam," as Osee says, "was with my God."

Bent to the very earth, here preceding what follows, Terrified with myself that I have dared to open my

whose echoes recoil upon me, I have not once had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me!

Come, my tan-faced children, Follow well in order, get your weapons ready; Have you your pistols?

For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful

O my breast aches with ten- der tender love for all!

See, my children, resolute children, By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter, Ages

I too with my soul and body, We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, Through these shores,

"Beginning my studies, the first step pleased me so much, The mere fact, consciousness—these forms—the

pleas'd me so much, I have never gone, and never wish'd to go, any further, But stop and loiter all my

When last in the dooryard the lilacs bloomed [sic]," "Chanting the Square Deific," and "As I lay with my

import of his first book ("without yielding an inch, the working-man and working-woman were to be in my

head at nightfall, and he is fain to say, "I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my

"O my brave soul! O farther, farther sail! O daring joy, but safe!

) For that, O God—be it my latest word — here on my knees, Old, poor, and paralysed—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 .

"My hands, my limbs, grow nerveless; My brain feels rack'd, bewilder'd; Let the old timbers part I will

GOOD-BYE MY FANCY. * T HERE is something at once very pathetic and courageous in this definitive leave-taking

My life and recitative . . . . . .I and my recitatives, with faith and love Waiting to other work, to

And again: Good-bye my Fancy, Farewell dear mate, dear love!

May-be it is you the mortal knot really undoing, turning— so now finally Good-bye—and hail, my Fancy.

Good-Bye My Fancy

"Good-Bye, my Fancy!"

'Good-bye, my Fancy!'

These brave beliefs ring almost gayly through 'An Ended Day,' 'The Pallid Wreath,' 'My 71st Year,' 'Shakespeare-Bacon's

like the arch of the full moon, nebulous, Ossianlike, but striking in its filmy vagueness. ∗ Good-Bye, my

New York "Good-Bye, my Fancy!"

. * "No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or as aiming

Leaves of Grass has been chiefly the outcropping of my own emotional and other personal nature—an attempt

day, there can be no such thing as a long poem, fascinated him: "The same thought had been haunting my

flashes of lightning, with the emotional depths it sounded and arous'd (of course, I don't mean in my

"I round and finish little, if anything; and could not, consistently with my scheme.

reckon,’ he adds, with quaint colloquial arrogance, ‘I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my

afternoons and sitting by him, and he liked to have me—liked to put out his arm and lay his hand on my

were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely innocent of—said ‘I never in my

I rubbed my eyes a little, to see if this sunbeam were no illusion; but the solid sense of the book is

head at nightfall, and he is fain to say,— I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease…observing a spear of summer grass.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeeful green stuff woven.

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me.

." ***** "O despairer, here is my neck, You shall not go down! Hang your whole weight upon me."

My moral constitution may be hopelessly tainted or—too sound to be tainted, as the critic wills, but

, Earth of the limpid grey of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far swooping elbowed earth!

The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul."

———Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance ."

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed earth!

the wounded person, My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

Heat and smoke I inspired…I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their

I lie in the night air in my red shirt…the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted

"I, too, am not a bit tamed…I, too, am untransla- table untranslatable ; I sound my barbaric yawp over

I could not shut my eyes to their wild, rough beauty nor close my soul to the truths they expressed.

I write simply to express my unqualified disgust with the portions I have read.

more foolish than the rest of the volume:— "I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable, I sound my

The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness, after the rest, and true as any, on the

I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the run-away sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it

To prepare for sleep, for bed—to look on my rose-coloured flesh, To be conscious of my body, so amorous

Have you learned the physiology, phrenology, politics, geography, pride, freedom, friendship, of my land

Earth of the limpid grey of clouds, brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbowed Earth!

since, after the closest inquiry, "I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones."

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some the spread of my own body."

As for Mine, Mine has the idea of my own, and what's Mine is my own, and my own is all Mine and believes

in your and my name, the Present time. 6.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt—the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted

look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books : ; "You shall not look through my

beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough; To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my

I wish to see my benefactor, and have felt much like striking my tasks and visiting New York to pay you

my respects.

The air tastes good to my palate.

Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art?

Another song on the death of Lincoln, "Oh Captain! My Captain!"

make the only growth by which I can be appreciated, I reject none, accept all, then reporduce all in my

For the great Idea, That, O my brethren, that is the mission of poets.

I loafe and invite my soul. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of sum- mer summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from

stuck up, and am in my place.

Now comes a passage remarkable for its nobility: "With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums

I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.

are famous everywhere; and, though later efforts have been less happy, the one exquisite song, "O, Captain

My Captain!" written on the death of Lincoln, would make him one of our honored poets forever.

future," "You do not understand me, you cannot understand me, but I can wait hundreds of years for my

— The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

"Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or a hair on the back of my hand just

O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! O Captain, my Captain!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain, my Captain, rise up and hear the bells.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

Exult O shores, and ring O bells, But I with mournful tread Walk the deck my Captain lies, To analyze

Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain'd with iron or my ankles with iron?

do I exclude you, Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my

"The chief end I purpose to myself in all my labours," wrote Dean Swift, "is to vex the world rather

and flows": "This day, before dawn, I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my

And my spirit said ' No .'"

suddenly,—reservedly, with a beautiful paucity of communication, even silently, such was its effect on my

If I worship any particular thing, it shall be some of the spread of my own body."—p. 55.

thereof—and no less in myself than the whole of the Mannahatta in itself, Singing the song of These, my

ever united lands—my body no more inevitably united, part to part, and made one identity, any more than

my lands are inevitably united, and made one identity, Nativities, climates, the grass of the great

I sound triumphal drums for the dead—I fling thro' my embouchures the loudest and gayest music for them

their dead songs about dead Europe, and its stupid monks and priests, its chivalry, and its thing a-my-bobs

I round and finish little, if anything; and could not consistently with my scheme.

"'Leaves of Grass' indeed (I cannot too often reiterate) has mainly been the outcropping of my own emotional

No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or as aiming mainly

Bent to the very earth, here preceding what follows, Terrified with myself that I have dared to open my

echoes re- coil recoil upon me, I have not once had the least idea who or what I am, But that before all my

for your dear sake, O soldiers, And for you, O soul of man, and you, love of comrades; The words of my

Whitman as follows: "You came to woo my sister, the human soul.

"After completing my poems," then, writes Mr.

"That I have not gain'd the acceptance of my own time; that from a worldly and business point of view

I had my choice when I commenced.

"The best comfort of the whole business is that I have had my say entirely my own way—the value thereof

No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance."

For illustration, he gives utterance to phrases like this: "I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it

He himself says, "Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much harm, perhaps more."

by the indolent waves, I am exposed, cut by bitter and poisoned hail Steeped amid honeyed morphine , my

darkness Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking—preparations to pass to the one we had conquered— The captain

The only American prophet to my knowledge who enjoys a fame in England not accorded him in his own country

, strolling tides, Companions, travelers, gossiping as they journey; And he sends it out 'partly as my

And thee, My Soul! Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations!

Thee for my recitative!

Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music!

('Just now I am finishing a big volume of about 900 pages comprehending all my stuff, poems and prose

Now he writes, "Have not been out-doors for over six months—hardly out of my room, but get along better

Or in "A Carol closing Sixty-nine':— "Of me myself—the jocund heart yet beating in my breast, The body

old, poor, and paralysed—the strange inertia falling pall-like round me, The burning fires down in my

And in another passage (in the introductory essay) he says—'No one will get at my verses who insists

.—" He is a painter, carver and sculptor: "A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!

Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it; I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half-

results—and I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death; And I will thread a thread through my

succeeding poem, we have him clearly in trance, and the impressing spirit speaking through him:— Take my

see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my

Here is one which again proclaims his purpose:— I stand in my place, with my own day, here.

And what are my miracles? 2.

side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms and neck.

bit of pathos—indubitably human—in my eye, confess now am I not a man and a brother?"

place, with my own day, here."

my dwell- dwelling .)"

'O the life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh.'

my South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!"

my South!O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! good and evil! O all dear to me!"

my Captain!

O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead. O Captain!

my Captain!

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse

But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, The most prejudiced will not deny that that

"In the year 80 of the States, My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air, Born

"Take my leaves, America! take them South, and take them North! Surround them, East and West!

"O my comrade! O you and me at last, and us two only! O to level occupations and the sexes!

If he worships any particular thing, he says it shall be "some of the spread of my own body."

One long passage commences thus: "O my body!

A very different book is the latest collection of the poems of Walt Whitman, entitled "Good-bye, My Fancy

potentates and powers, might well be dropped in oblivion by America—but never that if I could have my

Dozens of pages of his rhythmic prose are not worth "My Captain," which among all his compositions comes

If Whitman, after the same length of time, proves more fortunate, it will be because he wrote "My Captain

Whatever may be said for the genius that created the peculiar style of (and, for my part, I think a great

Yet it would be wrong not to correct my criticism about Whitman's style by pointing out that there are

There are passages in the lines entitled 'Captain, My Captain,' and in the war-lyric commencing 'Beat