But he had faith in the future of his country, vast hopes in the purification wrought out by those sorrowful years: and his poem To the Man-of-War Bird was but one of many allegories in which he saw his beloved America rising transfigured from the ashes of the past.
Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm,
Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions,
(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,
And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)....
Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)
To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,
Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,
Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,
At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,
That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,
In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,
What joys! what joys were thine!
and out of the smoke and din of conflict, he believed, should spring "the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon," knit in sublime unity of brotherhood.
Dinner over, Whitman retired awhile to his own apartment: that fearful chaos of pell-mell untidiness which was the delight of its occupant and the despair of Mrs. Stafford. An indescribable confusion it was of letters, newspapers and books,—an inkbottle on one chair, a glass of lemonade on another, a pile of MSS. on a third, a hat on the floor.... Imperturbably composed, the poet surveyed his best-loved books,—Scott, Carlyle, Tennyson, Emerson,—translations of Homer, Dante, Hafiz, Saadi: renderings of Virgil, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius,—versions of Spanish and German poets: most well-worn of all, Shakespeare and the Bible. Finally, out of the heterogeneous collection he selected George Sand's Consuelo and seated himself at the window with it. On another afternoon he would have returned to the creek, but to-day he was expecting a friend.
And friends, with him, did not mean mere acquaintances: still less those visitors who were brought by vulgar curiosity. Although the best of comrades and one who found companionship most exhilarating, he had a bed-rock of deep reserve, and "to such as he did not like, he became as a precipice." But to those with whom he was truly en rapport,—whether by letter or in the flesh,—he was spendthrift of his personality. His English literary friends,—Tennyson, Rossetti, Buchanan, Browning and others, had supplied the financial aid which enabled him to recuperate at Timber Creek: compatriots such as Emerson, John Burroughs, and a host of old-time friends were welcome visitors. But nothing in his life or in his literary fortunes, he declared, had brought him more comfort and support—nothing had more spiritually soothed him—than the "warm appreciation and friendship of that true full-grown woman," Anne Gilchrist, the sweet English widow who was now staying with her children in Philadelphia, to be within easy reach of Whitman. "Among the perfect women I have known (and it has been very unspeakable good fortune to have had the very best for mother, sisters and friends), I have known none more perfect," wrote the poet, "than my dear, dear friend, Anne Gilchrist." It was this warm-hearted, courageous Englishwoman, "alive with humour and vivacity," whose musical voice was shortly heard outside, enquiring for Walt. He hastened down to receive her.
THE MAN-OF-WAR BIRD.
Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)
To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,
Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,
Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,
At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,
That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,
In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,
What joys! what joys were thine!
(To the Man-of-War Bird.)
