HARNED / WHITMAN
Lincoln Material 
"To Walt Whitman," a poem by Guillermo Dulce, Apr. 6, 1876
(L. C. 210)
Box 6 
Folder 33 210  [Poemby Guillermo Dulce entitled] TO WALT WHITMAN.  Washington, 
April 6, 1876.  [3] p. on 2 l.  26 x 20 cm.  Holograph, signed, in ink
on lined paper. 
Mounted and bound with other material in a single volume entitled "Lincoln Material."
9[p.5])  [*p. 77*] 

To Walt Whitman 

Thou grand old man of Gotham, I, thy boy
By forty wintering years, whose teens of song
Have bent there in their ecstasies to thine, 
As man bends rev'rently to woman, now 
Bow down to thee and worship.  Proud am I
Of mine idolatry.  I kiss thy hand -- 
That heart-warm gentle hand whose touch both soothed, 
Whose clasp hath honored and whose touch hath cheered
Sad thousands by the wayside, in barred prisons, 
In hungry wants wan alleys, where men moaned 
With fevers and war's fratricidal scars,--- 
I kiss they hand and press it to my cheek, 
And bare thy stable breast that chafes imprisoned 
In haughty fashions gear, and free they throat 
That towers up grandly like a column crown'd, 
And top out all thy wealth of hoar-white hair
And braid it thick with laurels, and proclaim, 
Sublime old Optimist, thee Jove of men. 

They tell me thou art breaking.--May, I think
Thou wert not formed to break like other men, 
[*5*] 
Bending a little now, and else more low, 

Till near their goal the earth they fall unheard 
Some silent night in winter -- nay, thou oak, 
Thou stanch old monarch, thus thou shalt not break. 
Towering above the forest height on height, 
Set gnaw the tooth of Time, and let such die 
As Nature fashion'd less, and fall and rot, 
His tooth shall ne'er envenom thy great heart; 
But when thine hour is come a storm shall quake
The earth's deep center, and 'mid tempests' howl 
And mighty rush of winds thy roots shall yield, 
Thy branches shiver, and thy body riven
Measure its majesty athwart two spheres, 
Magnificent, all unwithered to the end. 

They tell me thou 'rt reviled.-- I heard some gnats, 
That most pestiferous swarm, buggy round thine ear, 
 But deem'd thou didst not heed them.  "These," I said, 
"These inky midges of the libelers' guild, 
These geniuses of dullness, let them snarl 
And swarm about the lion -- it chafes him not, 
While they esteem these gadflies.  These revile
The 'good gray part', these mar aught be sung, 
Or pluck one honor from his lofty crest!"
Their libels are thy praise. Where Virtue walks
There swarm foul vice's locusts; so where one,
A tall Promethean of his age, is seen,
There pigmies congregate and mime and mouth,
And gibe the giant whom they cannot slay.
Sing on, thou Homer of the Age of Steam!
'Tis not for such as these thy lyre is tuned;
Thy songs are to the cycles - sing and wait.

They tell me thou art needy - that thy hands
Grown cunning with much minist'ring to griefs
Have foiled each other, each relying each
Would hoard a pittance for life's "rainy day",
Till both are bankrupt. God! My pulses boil!
My heart leaps crimsoning to my cheek! - In need!
Walt Whitman want for bread, a shelter, where
To lay that grand gray head! The man who sung -
Or something more than man - there "Leaves of Grass",
Whence issued murmurous these "Two Rivulets",
Begging a crust like any churl, or even
(Too proud to beg it) starving! Look, thou pink[?],
Thou pattern of the long-sought honest man,
On this dark scene's dishonor - look I say


On what thy hand hath wrought - look on a scene
In any land where sun shines and Christ is
(Save this) were viewless: one whose genius lends
(Since thou art native to the age he crowns)
More lustre to thy name than thou canst give,
Banish'd to make some pandering boor a prince!

But 'tis not so, I think: thou shalt not want
While hearts are red: while I have roof or crust
Come share them with me... But the shame is there -
The dark all-crying shame of casting thee
On a man's gratitude, the kindred, friend.
Thou art not friend's or kindred's - nay, thou art
The nation's: let the nation shelter thee,
And clothe and nourish - not as some old man
Housed but by sufferance till he haply die,
But like one lac[?] - ennobled, tenderly,
For so art thou ennobled: - thought's fine gold,
Weighed in the mints of Genius and so coined,
Shall be her heritage, thy legacy.
In Genius' name, in Justice' and in Honor's
I call on him to friend thee Caesar called,
A greater than thy Brutus. Brave we know
he is, and noble, crowned with gratitude,


And sceptered with a continent's applause.
Ere he put off state cares I challenge him
Add yet one laurel to his ample bays -
T'would hold no fere[?] - name thee Columbia's ward
In this glad hundredth year; 'twould fitly round
The lavish honors of a glorious life.

Guillermo Dulce

Washington, D.C., Apr. 6, 1876
No. 38 I street, N. E. 

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