And still goes one, saying, "What will ye give me, and I will deliver this man unto you?" And they make the covenant, and pay the pieces of silver. Look forth, deliverer, Look forth, first-born of the dead, Over the tree-tops of Paradise; See thyself in yet-continued bonds, Toilsome and poor, thou bear'st man's form again, Thou art reviled, scourged, put into prison, Hunted from the arrogant equality of the rest; With staves and swords throng the willing servants of authority, Again they surround thee, mad with devilish spite; Toward thee stretch the hands of a multitude, like vultures' talons, The nearest spit in thy face, they smite thee with their palms; Bruised, bloody, and pinion'd is thy body, More sorrowful than death is thy soul. Witness of anguish, brother of slaves, Not with thy price closed the price of thine image: And still Iscariot plies his trade. I The soul, Forever and forever--longer than soil is brown and solid--longer than water ebbs and flows. II Each is not for its own sake, I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake. III In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed perfection. By every life a share or more or less, None born but it is born, conceal'd or unconceal'd the seed is waiting. IV Do you not see O my brothers and sisters? It is not chaos or death--it is form, union, plan--it is eternal life--it is Happiness. V The song is to the singer, and comes back most to him, The love is to the lover, and comes back most to him--it cannot fail. VI I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people _Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banish'd from my true country, I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn._ * * * * * This is an attempt, incomplete but fairly representative as to sources, to trace the changing view during half a century of Leaves of Grass and its author. V Sonnets and apostrophes in large number addressed to Walt Whitman during the later years of his life, and since his passing away, have appeared in fugitive form in widely separated sources. A selection of these may prove of interest by reason of the names attached, as well as because of the subject: