It exhibits the effort of
an essentially prosaic mind to lift itself, by a prolonged
muscular strain, into poetry. Like hundreds of other good
patriots, Mr. Walt Whitman has imagined that a certain amount
of violent sympathy with the great deeds and sufferings of our
soldiers, and of admiration for our national energy, together
with a ready command of picturesque language, are sufficient
inspiration for a poet.... But he is not a poet who merely
reiterates these plain facts _ore rotundo_. He only sings them
worthily who views them from a height.... Mr. Whitman is very
fond of blowing his own trumpet, and he has made very explicit
claims for his book.... The frequent capitals are the only
marks of verse in Mr. Whitman's writing. There is, fortunately,
but one attempt at rhyme.... Each line starts off by itself, in
resolute independence of its companions, without a visible goal
... it begins like verse and turns out to be arrant prose. It
is more like Mr. Tupper's proverbs than anything we have
met.... No triumph, however small, is won but through the
exercise of art, and this volume is an offence against art....
We look in vain through the book for a single idea. We find
nothing but flashy imitations of ideas. We find a medley of
extravagances and commonplaces.
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