The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
278
WALT WHITMAN
Thy country waits its bard. This thou hast seen.—
Thy soul hath revelled in the forests green;
The solemn purple plains;
The immense far range of hills whose summits hoar
Mix with the eternal blue; the ceaseless roar
Of rivers swollen by Titanic rains:
Thy soul hath revelled in the forests green;
The solemn purple plains;
The immense far range of hills whose summits hoar
Mix with the eternal blue; the ceaseless roar
Of rivers swollen by Titanic rains:
Somewhat thy soul hath gathered of the might
Of thine America; by day, by night,
Watching, thy gaze hath won
A measured glimpse of what man's eyes shall see;
While Europe's slaves to kings have bent the knee
Thou, yokeless, hast been vassal of the sun:
Of thine America; by day, by night,
Watching, thy gaze hath won
A measured glimpse of what man's eyes shall see;
While Europe's slaves to kings have bent the knee
Thou, yokeless, hast been vassal of the sun:
Thou, scaling thought's untrodden mountain-sides,
Hast felt the heart of Freedom like a bride's
Against thine own heart beat;
While the old world struggled, cramped by prison-bars,
Thou, seeking Freedom's palace lit by stars,
Didst pass the heights where storms and the eagles meet:
Hast felt the heart of Freedom like a bride's
Against thine own heart beat;
279
Thou, seeking Freedom's palace lit by stars,
Didst pass the heights where storms and the eagles meet:
And yet thy giant-futured marvellous land
Still needs a seer whose soul shall understand,
And, understanding, sing.
When the true poet comes, then he will reign
O'er vast America from plain to plain,
And be the land's first royal-sceptred king.
Still needs a seer whose soul shall understand,
And, understanding, sing.
When the true poet comes, then he will reign
O'er vast America from plain to plain,
And be the land's first royal-sceptred king.
Nature's wild heart is fevered till it speaks.
The deathless music of the mountain-peaks
And waves is yet to be!
America, though Whitman gave you much,
He gave you not the missing royal touch:
He spake not like your plains, nor like your sea.
The deathless music of the mountain-peaks
And waves is yet to be!
America, though Whitman gave you much,
He gave you not the missing royal touch:
He spake not like your plains, nor like your sea.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |