Walt Whitman Part 5

s.h.i.+ne! s.h.i.+ne! s.h.i.+ne!

Pour down your warmth, great sun!

While we bask, we two together.

Two together!

Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together.

In a little while one of the birds is missed and never appeared again, and all through the summer the mate, the solitary guest, was singing of the lost:

Blow! blow! blow!

Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's sh.o.r.e; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

And the boy that night, blending himself with the shadows, with bare feet, went down to the sea, where the white arms out in the breakers were tirelessly tossing; listening to the songs and translating the notes.

And the singing bird called loud and high for the mate, wondering what the dusky spot was in the brown and yellow, seeing the mate whichever way he looked, piercing the woods and the earth with his song, hoping that the mate might hear his cry; stopping that he might not lose her answer; waiting and then crying again: "Here I am! And this gentle call is for you. Do not be deceived by the whistle of the wind; those are the shadows;" and at last crying:

O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!

In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!

But my mate no more, no more with me!

We two together no more.

And then the boy, understanding the song that had awakened in his breast a thousand songs clearer and louder and more sorrowful than the bird's, knowing that the cry of unsatisfied love would never again be absent from him; thinking then of the destiny of all, and asking of the sea the final word, and the sea answering, delaying not and hurrying not, spoke the low delicious word "Death!" "ever Death!"

The next poem, one that will live as long as our language, ent.i.tled: "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," is on the death of Lincoln,

The sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands.

One who reads this will never forget the odor of the lilac, "the l.u.s.trous western star" and "the grey-brown bird singing in the pines and cedars."

In this poem the dramatic unities are perfectly preserved, the atmosphere and climate in harmony with every event.

Never will he forget the solemn journey of the coffin through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, nor the pomp of inlooped flags, the processions long and winding, the flambeaus of night, the torches' flames, the silent sea of faces, the unbared heads, the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, the dirges, the shuddering organs, the tolling bells--and the sprig of lilac.

And then for a moment they will hear the grey-brown bird singing in the cedars, bashful and tender, while the l.u.s.trous star lingers in the West, and they will remember the pictures hung on the chamber walls to adorn the burial house--pictures of spring and farms and homes, and the grey smoke lucid and bright, and the floods of yellow gold--of the gorgeous indolent sinking sun--the sweet herbage under foot--the green leaves of the trees prolific--the breast of the river with the wind-dapple here and there, and the varied and ample land--and the most excellent sun so calm and haughty--the violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes--the gentle soft born measureless light--the miracle spreading, bathing all--the fulfill'd noon--the coming eve delicious and the welcome night and the stars.

And then again they will hear the song of the grey-brown bird in the limitless dusk amid the cedars and pines. Again they will remember the star, and again the odor of the lilac.

But most of all, the song of the bird translated and becoming the chant for death:

A CHANT FOR DEATH.

Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death.

Prais'd be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise!

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death.

From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star, The ocean sh.o.r.e and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death.

This poem, in memory of "the sweetest, wisest soul of all our days and lands," and for whose sake lilac and star and bird entwined, will last as long as the memory of Lincoln.

XII.

OLD AGE.

Walt Whitman is not only the poet of childhood, of youth, of manhood, but, above all, of old age. He has not been soured by slander or petrified by prejudice; neither calumny nor flattery has made him revengeful or arrogant. Now sitting by the fireside, in the winter of life,

His jocund heart still beating in his breast,

he is just as brave and calm and kind as in his manhood's proudest days, when roses blossomed in his cheeks. He has taken life's seven steps. Now, as the gamester might say, "on velvet." He is enjoying "old age expanded, broad, with the haughty breadth of the universe; old age, flowing free, with the delicious near-by freedom of death; old age, superbly rising, welcoming the ineffable aggregation of dying days."

He is taking the "loftiest look at last," and before he goes he utters thanks:

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air--for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear you, father--you, brothers, sisters, friends.) For all my days--not those of peace alone the days of war the same, For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands, For shelter, wine and meat--for sweet appreciation, (You distant, dim unknown--or young or old--countless, unspecified, readers belov'd, We never met, and ne'er shall meet--and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long.) For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books--for colors, forms, For all the brave strong men--devoted, hardy men--who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands, For braver, stronger, more devoted men (a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones, The cannoneers of song and thought--the great artillerists--the foremost leaders, captains of the soul).

It is a great thing to preach philosophy--far greater to live it. The highest philosophy accepts the inevitable with a smile, and greets it as though it were desired.

To be satisfied: This is wealth--success.

The real philosopher knows that everything has happened that could have happened--consequently he accepts. He is glad that he has lived--glad that he has had his moment on the stage. In this spirit Whitman has accepted life.

I shall go forth, I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long, Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my voice will suddenly cease.

O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?

Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?--and yet it is enough, O soul; O soul, we have positively appear'd--that is enough.

Yes, Walt Whitman has appeared. He has his place upon the stage. The drama is not ended. His voice is still heard. He is the Poet of Democracy--of all people. He is the poet of the body and soul. He has sounded the note of Individuality. He has given the pa.s.s-word primeval. He is the Poet of Humanity--of Intellectual Hospitality. He has voiced the aspirations of America--and, above all, he is the poet of Love and Death.

How grandly, how bravely he has given his thought, and how superb is his farewell--his leave-taking:

After the supper and talk--after the day is done, As a friend from friends his final withdrawal prolonging, Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips repeating, (So hard for his hand to release those hands--no more will they meet, No more for communion of sorrow and joy, of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him, to return no more,) Shunning, postponing severance seeking to ward off the last word ever so little, E'en at the exit-door turning--charges superfluous calling back--e'en as he descends the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional--shadows of nightfall deepening, Farewells, messages lessening--dimmer the forthgoer's visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness loth, O so loth to depart!