They discussed the work of contemporary poets, English and American. Whitman, however much he differed from these in theory and method, gave generous homage to their varied genius. He loved to declaim the _Ulysses_ and kindred majestically-rolling passages of Tennyson, in a clear, strong, rugged tone, devoid of all elocutionary tricks or affectation. He never spoke a line of his own verse, but to recite from Shakespeare was a great pleasure to him: and he compared the Shakespearean plays to large, rich, splendid tapestry, like Raffaelle's historical cartoons, where everything is broad and colossal. For Scott, whose work, he said, breathed more of the open air than the workshop, he had unfeigned admiration. Dramatic work and music in all its forms he discussed with knowledge and fervour. As for the poets of America, he poured encomium upon them ungrudgingly. "I can't imagine any better luck befalling these States for a poetical beginning and initiation than has come from Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant and Whittier." (_Specimen Days._) The afternoon shadows stretched themselves out, and at sunset Mrs. Gilchrist and her children departed. It had been for her a memorable afternoon: and Whitman had been thoroughly in his element as comrade of so congenial a soul. Now, as the twilight deepened, he devoted himself to the consideration of the deepest notes in the whole diapason of human existence. Never was a man of more exuberant a joy in life: never one who gazed more courageously into the dim-veiled face of Death,--the sower of all enigmas, the comforter of all pain. Whispers of heavenly death, murmur'd I hear; Labial gossip of night--sibilant chorals; Footsteps gently ascending--mystical breezes, wafted soft and low.... (Did you think Life was so well provided for--and Death, the purport of all Life, is not well provided for?)... I do not doubt that whatever can possibly happen, any where, at any time, is provided for, in the inherences of things; I do not think Life provides for all, and for Time and Space--but I believe Heavenly Death provides for all. (_Whispers of Heavenly Death._) And his heart once more, as in the matchless threnody for Lincoln, _When Lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed_, uttered its song of summons and of welcome. 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.... 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.