A PAGAN REVERIE.
Tell me, mother Nature! tender yet stern mother!In what nomenclature (fitlier than another)Can I laud and praise thee, entreat and implore thee;Ask thee what thy ways be, question yet adore thee.Over me thy heaven bends its royal arches;Through its vault the seven planets keep their marches:Rising, shining, setting, with no change or turning;Never once forgetting—wasted not with burning.On and on, unceasing, move the constellations,Lessening nor increasing since the birth of nations:Sun and moon unfailing keep their times and seasons,—But man, unavailing, pleads to thee for reasons.Why the great dumb mountains, why the ocean hoary—Even the babbling fountains, older are than story,And his life's duration's but a few short marchesOf the constellations through the heavenly arches!Even the oaks of Mamre, and the palms of Kedar,(Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar,Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing,—While the holiest sages have not time for knowing.Mother whom we cherish, savage while so tender,Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor?Does the diamond shimmer brightlier that eternalTime makes nothing dimmer of its light supernal?Do the treasures hidden in earth's rocky bosom,Cry to men unbidden that they come and loose them?Is the dew of dawntide sad because the SummerKissed to death the fawn-eyed Spring, the earlier comer?Would the golden vapors trooping over heaven,Quench the starry tapers of the sunless even?When the arrowy lightnings smite the rocks asunder,Do they shrink with frightenings from the bellowing thunder?Inconceivable Nature! these, thy inert creatures,With their sphinx-like stature, are of man the teachers;Silent, secret, passive, endless as the ages,'Gainst their forces massive fruitlessly he rages.Winds and waves misuse him, buffet and destroy him;Thorns and pebbles bruise him, heat and cold annoy him;Sting of insect maddens, snarl of beast affrights him;Shade of forest saddens, breath of flowers delights him.O thou great, mysterious mother of all mystery!At thy lips imperious man entreats his history.—Whence he came—and whither is his spirit fleeing:Ere it wandered hither had it other being:Will its subtile essence, passing through death's portal,Put on nobler presence in a life immortal?Or is man but matter, that a touch ungentle,Back again may shatter to forms elemental?Can mere atoms question how they feel sensation?Or dust make suggestion of its own creation?Yet if man were better than his base conditions,Could things baser fetter his sublime ambitions?What unknown conjunction of the pure etherial,With the form and function of the gross material,Gives the product mortal? whose immortal yearningBrings him to the portal of celestial learning.To the portal gleaming, where the waiting sphinxes,Humoring his dreaming, give him what he thinks isKey to the arcana—plausible equationOf the problems many in his incarnation.Pitiful delusion!—in no nomenclature—Maugre its profusion—O ambiguous nature!Can man find expression of his own relationTo the great procession of facts in creation?Fruitless speculating! none may lift the curtainFrom the antedating ages and uncertainWhen what is was not, and tides of pristine beingBeat on shores forgot, and all, as now, unseeing.Whence impelled or whither, or by what volition;Borne now here, now thither, in blind inanition.Out of this abysmal, nebulous dim distance,Haunted by a dismal, phantomic existence,Issued man?—a creature without inspiration,Gross of form and feature, dull of inclination?Or was his primordial self a something higher?Fresh from test and ordeal of elemental fire.Were these ages golden while the world was younger,When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger?When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness,And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness?When the restless river of time loved to linger;Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger;When man's intuition led without deflection,To a sure fruition, and a full perfection.Individual man is ever new created:What his being's plan is, loosely predicatedOn the circumstances of his sole condition,Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition.His creation gives him clue to nothing older:Naked, life receives him—wondering beholderOf the world about him—and ere aught is certain,Time and mystery flout him; and death drops the curtain.Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be,Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be:When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation,Fancies he was stronger at his first creation:Else—in him inhering powers of intellection—Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection,Itself gives security to restore life's treasure,Freed from all impurity and in endless measure.Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken.Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken:All in vain the sages toil with proof and question—The immemorial ages give no least suggestion.
Tell me, mother Nature! tender yet stern mother!In what nomenclature (fitlier than another)Can I laud and praise thee, entreat and implore thee;Ask thee what thy ways be, question yet adore thee.
Tell me, mother Nature! tender yet stern mother!
In what nomenclature (fitlier than another)
Can I laud and praise thee, entreat and implore thee;
Ask thee what thy ways be, question yet adore thee.
Over me thy heaven bends its royal arches;Through its vault the seven planets keep their marches:Rising, shining, setting, with no change or turning;Never once forgetting—wasted not with burning.
Over me thy heaven bends its royal arches;
Through its vault the seven planets keep their marches:
Rising, shining, setting, with no change or turning;
Never once forgetting—wasted not with burning.
On and on, unceasing, move the constellations,Lessening nor increasing since the birth of nations:Sun and moon unfailing keep their times and seasons,—But man, unavailing, pleads to thee for reasons.
On and on, unceasing, move the constellations,
Lessening nor increasing since the birth of nations:
Sun and moon unfailing keep their times and seasons,—
But man, unavailing, pleads to thee for reasons.
Why the great dumb mountains, why the ocean hoary—Even the babbling fountains, older are than story,And his life's duration's but a few short marchesOf the constellations through the heavenly arches!
Why the great dumb mountains, why the ocean hoary—
Even the babbling fountains, older are than story,
And his life's duration's but a few short marches
Of the constellations through the heavenly arches!
Even the oaks of Mamre, and the palms of Kedar,(Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar,Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing,—While the holiest sages have not time for knowing.
Even the oaks of Mamre, and the palms of Kedar,
(Praising thee with psalmry) and the stately cedar,
Through the cycling ages, stinted not are growing,—
While the holiest sages have not time for knowing.
Mother whom we cherish, savage while so tender,Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor?Does the diamond shimmer brightlier that eternalTime makes nothing dimmer of its light supernal?
Mother whom we cherish, savage while so tender,
Do the lilies perish mourning their lost splendor?
Does the diamond shimmer brightlier that eternal
Time makes nothing dimmer of its light supernal?
Do the treasures hidden in earth's rocky bosom,Cry to men unbidden that they come and loose them?Is the dew of dawntide sad because the SummerKissed to death the fawn-eyed Spring, the earlier comer?
Do the treasures hidden in earth's rocky bosom,
Cry to men unbidden that they come and loose them?
Is the dew of dawntide sad because the Summer
Kissed to death the fawn-eyed Spring, the earlier comer?
Would the golden vapors trooping over heaven,Quench the starry tapers of the sunless even?When the arrowy lightnings smite the rocks asunder,Do they shrink with frightenings from the bellowing thunder?
Would the golden vapors trooping over heaven,
Quench the starry tapers of the sunless even?
When the arrowy lightnings smite the rocks asunder,
Do they shrink with frightenings from the bellowing thunder?
Inconceivable Nature! these, thy inert creatures,With their sphinx-like stature, are of man the teachers;Silent, secret, passive, endless as the ages,'Gainst their forces massive fruitlessly he rages.
Inconceivable Nature! these, thy inert creatures,
With their sphinx-like stature, are of man the teachers;
Silent, secret, passive, endless as the ages,
'Gainst their forces massive fruitlessly he rages.
Winds and waves misuse him, buffet and destroy him;Thorns and pebbles bruise him, heat and cold annoy him;Sting of insect maddens, snarl of beast affrights him;Shade of forest saddens, breath of flowers delights him.
Winds and waves misuse him, buffet and destroy him;
Thorns and pebbles bruise him, heat and cold annoy him;
Sting of insect maddens, snarl of beast affrights him;
Shade of forest saddens, breath of flowers delights him.
O thou great, mysterious mother of all mystery!At thy lips imperious man entreats his history.—Whence he came—and whither is his spirit fleeing:Ere it wandered hither had it other being:
O thou great, mysterious mother of all mystery!
At thy lips imperious man entreats his history.—
Whence he came—and whither is his spirit fleeing:
Ere it wandered hither had it other being:
Will its subtile essence, passing through death's portal,Put on nobler presence in a life immortal?Or is man but matter, that a touch ungentle,Back again may shatter to forms elemental?
Will its subtile essence, passing through death's portal,
Put on nobler presence in a life immortal?
Or is man but matter, that a touch ungentle,
Back again may shatter to forms elemental?
Can mere atoms question how they feel sensation?Or dust make suggestion of its own creation?Yet if man were better than his base conditions,Could things baser fetter his sublime ambitions?
Can mere atoms question how they feel sensation?
Or dust make suggestion of its own creation?
Yet if man were better than his base conditions,
Could things baser fetter his sublime ambitions?
What unknown conjunction of the pure etherial,With the form and function of the gross material,Gives the product mortal? whose immortal yearningBrings him to the portal of celestial learning.
What unknown conjunction of the pure etherial,
With the form and function of the gross material,
Gives the product mortal? whose immortal yearning
Brings him to the portal of celestial learning.
To the portal gleaming, where the waiting sphinxes,Humoring his dreaming, give him what he thinks isKey to the arcana—plausible equationOf the problems many in his incarnation.
To the portal gleaming, where the waiting sphinxes,
Humoring his dreaming, give him what he thinks is
Key to the arcana—plausible equation
Of the problems many in his incarnation.
Pitiful delusion!—in no nomenclature—Maugre its profusion—O ambiguous nature!Can man find expression of his own relationTo the great procession of facts in creation?
Pitiful delusion!—in no nomenclature—
Maugre its profusion—O ambiguous nature!
Can man find expression of his own relation
To the great procession of facts in creation?
Fruitless speculating! none may lift the curtainFrom the antedating ages and uncertainWhen what is was not, and tides of pristine beingBeat on shores forgot, and all, as now, unseeing.
Fruitless speculating! none may lift the curtain
From the antedating ages and uncertain
When what is was not, and tides of pristine being
Beat on shores forgot, and all, as now, unseeing.
Whence impelled or whither, or by what volition;Borne now here, now thither, in blind inanition.Out of this abysmal, nebulous dim distance,Haunted by a dismal, phantomic existence,
Whence impelled or whither, or by what volition;
Borne now here, now thither, in blind inanition.
Out of this abysmal, nebulous dim distance,
Haunted by a dismal, phantomic existence,
Issued man?—a creature without inspiration,Gross of form and feature, dull of inclination?Or was his primordial self a something higher?Fresh from test and ordeal of elemental fire.
Issued man?—a creature without inspiration,
Gross of form and feature, dull of inclination?
Or was his primordial self a something higher?
Fresh from test and ordeal of elemental fire.
Were these ages golden while the world was younger,When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger?When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness,And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness?
Were these ages golden while the world was younger,
When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger?
When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness,
And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness?
When the restless river of time loved to linger;Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger;When man's intuition led without deflection,To a sure fruition, and a full perfection.
When the restless river of time loved to linger;
Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger;
When man's intuition led without deflection,
To a sure fruition, and a full perfection.
Individual man is ever new created:What his being's plan is, loosely predicatedOn the circumstances of his sole condition,Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition.
Individual man is ever new created:
What his being's plan is, loosely predicated
On the circumstances of his sole condition,
Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition.
His creation gives him clue to nothing older:Naked, life receives him—wondering beholderOf the world about him—and ere aught is certain,Time and mystery flout him; and death drops the curtain.
His creation gives him clue to nothing older:
Naked, life receives him—wondering beholder
Of the world about him—and ere aught is certain,
Time and mystery flout him; and death drops the curtain.
Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be,Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be:When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation,Fancies he was stronger at his first creation:
Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be,
Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be:
When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation,
Fancies he was stronger at his first creation:
Else—in him inhering powers of intellection—Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection,Itself gives security to restore life's treasure,Freed from all impurity and in endless measure.
Else—in him inhering powers of intellection—
Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection,
Itself gives security to restore life's treasure,
Freed from all impurity and in endless measure.
Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken.Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken:All in vain the sages toil with proof and question—The immemorial ages give no least suggestion.
Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken.
Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken:
All in vain the sages toil with proof and question—
The immemorial ages give no least suggestion.
PASSING BY HELICON.
My steps are turned away;Yet my eyes linger still,On their beloved hill,In one long, last survey:Gazing through tears that multiply the view,Their passionate adieu!O, joy-empurpled height,Down whose enchanted sidesThe rosy mist now glides,How can I loose thy sight?How can my eyes turn where my feet must go,Trailing their way in woe?Gone is my strength of heart;The roses that I broughtFrom thy dear bowers, and thoughtTo keep, since we must part—Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now,Than round Hymettus' brow.The golden-vested beesFind sweetest sweetness in—Such odors dwelt withinThe moist red hearts of these—Alas, no longer give out blissful breath,But odors rank with death.Their dewiness is dank;It chills my pallid arms,Once blushing 'neath their charms;And their green stems hang lank,Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more,But withered to the core.Vain thought! to bear along,Into this torrid track,Whence no one turneth backWith his first wanderer's songYet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews,To deck these dwarfed yews.No more within thy vales,Beside thy plashing wells,Where sweet Euterpe dwellsWith songs of nightingales,And sounds of flutes that make pale Silence glow,Shall I their rapture know.Farewell, ye stately palms!Clashing your cymbal tones,In thro' the mystic moansOf pines at solemn psalms:Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song,We part, and part for long!Farewell, majestic peaks!Whereon my listening soulHath trembled to the rollOf thunders that Jove wreaks—And calm Minerva's oracles hath heardAll more than now unstirred!Adieu, ye beds of bloom!No more shall zephyr bringTo me, upon his wing,Your loveliest perfume;No more upon your pure, immortal dyes,Shall rest my happy eyes.I pass by; at thy foot,O, mount of my delight!Ere yet from out thy sight,I drop my voiceless lute:It is in vain to strive to carry henceIts olden eloquence.Your sacred groves no moreMy singing shall prolong,With echoes of my song,Doubling it o'er and o'er.Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes,What dreams of thee shall rise!Rise but to be dispelled—For here where I am cast,Such visions may not last,By sterner fancies quelled:Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent—This cruel banishment!
My steps are turned away;Yet my eyes linger still,On their beloved hill,In one long, last survey:Gazing through tears that multiply the view,Their passionate adieu!
My steps are turned away;
Yet my eyes linger still,
On their beloved hill,
In one long, last survey:
Gazing through tears that multiply the view,
Their passionate adieu!
O, joy-empurpled height,Down whose enchanted sidesThe rosy mist now glides,How can I loose thy sight?How can my eyes turn where my feet must go,Trailing their way in woe?
O, joy-empurpled height,
Down whose enchanted sides
The rosy mist now glides,
How can I loose thy sight?
How can my eyes turn where my feet must go,
Trailing their way in woe?
Gone is my strength of heart;The roses that I broughtFrom thy dear bowers, and thoughtTo keep, since we must part—Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now,Than round Hymettus' brow.
Gone is my strength of heart;
The roses that I brought
From thy dear bowers, and thought
To keep, since we must part—
Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now,
Than round Hymettus' brow.
The golden-vested beesFind sweetest sweetness in—Such odors dwelt withinThe moist red hearts of these—Alas, no longer give out blissful breath,But odors rank with death.
The golden-vested bees
Find sweetest sweetness in—
Such odors dwelt within
The moist red hearts of these—
Alas, no longer give out blissful breath,
But odors rank with death.
Their dewiness is dank;It chills my pallid arms,Once blushing 'neath their charms;And their green stems hang lank,Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more,But withered to the core.
Their dewiness is dank;
It chills my pallid arms,
Once blushing 'neath their charms;
And their green stems hang lank,
Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more,
But withered to the core.
Vain thought! to bear along,Into this torrid track,Whence no one turneth backWith his first wanderer's songYet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews,To deck these dwarfed yews.
Vain thought! to bear along,
Into this torrid track,
Whence no one turneth back
With his first wanderer's song
Yet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews,
To deck these dwarfed yews.
No more within thy vales,Beside thy plashing wells,Where sweet Euterpe dwellsWith songs of nightingales,And sounds of flutes that make pale Silence glow,Shall I their rapture know.
No more within thy vales,
Beside thy plashing wells,
Where sweet Euterpe dwells
With songs of nightingales,
And sounds of flutes that make pale Silence glow,
Shall I their rapture know.
Farewell, ye stately palms!Clashing your cymbal tones,In thro' the mystic moansOf pines at solemn psalms:Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song,We part, and part for long!
Farewell, ye stately palms!
Clashing your cymbal tones,
In thro' the mystic moans
Of pines at solemn psalms:
Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song,
We part, and part for long!
Farewell, majestic peaks!Whereon my listening soulHath trembled to the rollOf thunders that Jove wreaks—And calm Minerva's oracles hath heardAll more than now unstirred!
Farewell, majestic peaks!
Whereon my listening soul
Hath trembled to the roll
Of thunders that Jove wreaks—
And calm Minerva's oracles hath heard
All more than now unstirred!
Adieu, ye beds of bloom!No more shall zephyr bringTo me, upon his wing,Your loveliest perfume;No more upon your pure, immortal dyes,Shall rest my happy eyes.
Adieu, ye beds of bloom!
No more shall zephyr bring
To me, upon his wing,
Your loveliest perfume;
No more upon your pure, immortal dyes,
Shall rest my happy eyes.
I pass by; at thy foot,O, mount of my delight!Ere yet from out thy sight,I drop my voiceless lute:It is in vain to strive to carry henceIts olden eloquence.
I pass by; at thy foot,
O, mount of my delight!
Ere yet from out thy sight,
I drop my voiceless lute:
It is in vain to strive to carry hence
Its olden eloquence.
Your sacred groves no moreMy singing shall prolong,With echoes of my song,Doubling it o'er and o'er.Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes,What dreams of thee shall rise!
Your sacred groves no more
My singing shall prolong,
With echoes of my song,
Doubling it o'er and o'er.
Haunt of the muses, lost to wistful eyes,
What dreams of thee shall rise!
Rise but to be dispelled—For here where I am cast,Such visions may not last,By sterner fancies quelled:Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent—This cruel banishment!
Rise but to be dispelled—
For here where I am cast,
Such visions may not last,
By sterner fancies quelled:
Relentless Nemesis my doom hath sent—
This cruel banishment!
LOST AT SEA.
A fleet set sail upon a summer sea:'Tis now so long ago,I look no more to see my ships come home;But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me.Ships never bore such precious freight as these,Please God, to any woe.His world is wide, and they may ride the foam,Secure from danger, in some unknown seas.But they have left me bankrupt on life's 'change;And daily I bestowRegretful tears upon the blank account,And with myself my losses rearrange.Oh, mystic wind of fate, dost hold my dowerWhere I may never know?Of all my treasure ventured what amountWill the sea send me in my parting hour!
A fleet set sail upon a summer sea:'Tis now so long ago,I look no more to see my ships come home;But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me.
A fleet set sail upon a summer sea:
'Tis now so long ago,
I look no more to see my ships come home;
But in that fleet sailed all 'twas dear to me.
Ships never bore such precious freight as these,Please God, to any woe.His world is wide, and they may ride the foam,Secure from danger, in some unknown seas.
Ships never bore such precious freight as these,
Please God, to any woe.
His world is wide, and they may ride the foam,
Secure from danger, in some unknown seas.
But they have left me bankrupt on life's 'change;And daily I bestowRegretful tears upon the blank account,And with myself my losses rearrange.
But they have left me bankrupt on life's 'change;
And daily I bestow
Regretful tears upon the blank account,
And with myself my losses rearrange.
Oh, mystic wind of fate, dost hold my dowerWhere I may never know?Of all my treasure ventured what amountWill the sea send me in my parting hour!
Oh, mystic wind of fate, dost hold my dower
Where I may never know?
Of all my treasure ventured what amount
Will the sea send me in my parting hour!
'TWAS JUNE, NOT I.
"Come out into the garden, Maud;"In whispered tones young Percy said:He but repeated what he'd readThat afternoon, with soft applaud:A snatch, which for my same name's sake,He caught, out of the sweet, soft song,A lover for his love did make,In half despite of some fond wrong:—And more he quoted, just to showHow still the rhymes ran in his head,With visions of the roses redThat on the poet's pen did grow.The poet's spell was on our blood;The spell of June was in the air;We felt, more than we understood,The charm of being young and fair.Where everything is fair and young—As on June eves doth fitly seem:The Earth herself lies in amongThe misty, azure fields of space,A bride, whose startled blushes glowLess flame-like through the shrouds of laceThat sweeter all her beauties show.We walked and talked beneath the trees—Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June—The roses purpled in the moon:We breathed their fragrance on the breeze—Young Percy's voice is tuned to clearDeep tones, as if his heart were deep:This night it fluttered on my earAs young birds flutter in their sleep.My own voice faltered when I saidHow very sweet such hours must beWith one we love. At that word heShook like the aspen overhead:"Must be!" he drew me from the shade,To read my face to show his own:"Sayare, dear Maud!"—my tongue was stayed;My pliant limbs seemed turned to stone.He held my hands I could not move—The nerveless palms together prest—And clasped them tightly to his breast;While in my heart the question strove.The fire-flies flashed like wandering stars—I thought some sprang from out his eyes:Surely some spirit makes or marsAt will our earthly destinies!"Speak, Maud!"—at length I turned away:He must have thought it woman's fear;For, whispering softly in my earSuch gentle thanks as might allayLove's tender shame; left on my brow,And on each hand, a warm light kiss—I feel them burn there even now—But all my fetters fell at this.I spoke like an injured queen:It's our own defence when we're surprised—The way our weakness is disguised;I said things that I could not mean,Or ought not—since it was a lieThat love had not been in my mind:'Twas in the air I breathed; the skyShone love, and murmured it the wind.It had absorbed my soul with bliss;My blood ran love in every vein,And to have been beloved againWere heavenly!—so I thought till thisUnlooked for answer to the prayerMy heart was making with its might,Thus challenged, caught in sudden snare,Like two clouds meeting on a height,And, pausing first in short strange lull,Then bursting into awful storm,Opposing feelings multiform,Struggled in silence: and then fullOf our blind woman-wrath, broke forthIn stinging hail of sharp-edged ice,As freezing as the polar north,Yet maddening. O, the poor mean viceWe women have been taught to callBy virtue's name! the holy scornWe feel for lovers left love-lornBy our own coldness, or by the wallOf other love 'twixt them and us!The tempest past, I paused. He stoodSilent,—and yet "Ungenerous!"Was hurled back, plainer than ere couldHis lips have said it, by his eyesFire-flashing, and his pale, set face,Beautiful, and unmarred by traceOf aught save pain and pained surprise.—I quailed at last before that gaze,And even faintly owned my wrong:I said I "spoke in such amazeI could not choose words that belongTo such occasions." Here he smiled,To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh:"June eves disturb us differently,"He said, at length; "and I, beguiledBy something in the air, did doMy Lady Maud unmeant offence;And, what is stranger far, she too,Under the baleful influenceof this fair heaven"—he raised his eyes,And gestured proudly toward the stars—"Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, marsGod's purpose, written on these skies,Painted and uttered in this scene:Acknowledged in each secret heart;We both are wrong, you say; 'twould meanThat we too should be wide apart—And so, adieu!"—with this he went.I sat down whitening in the moon,With heat as of a desert noon,Sending its fever vehementAcross my brow, and through my frame—The fever of a wild regret—A vain regret without a name,In which both love and loathing met.Was this the same enchanted airI breathed one little hour ago?Did all these purple roses blowBut yestermorn, so sweet, so fair?Was itthiseve that some one said"Come out into the garden, Maud?"And while the sleepy birds o'erheadChirped out to know who walked abroad,Didweadmire the plumey flowersOn the wide-branched catalpa trees,And locusts, scenting all the breeze;And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?Didwerecall the "black bat Night,"That flew before young Maud walked forth—And say this Night's wings were too brightFor bats'—being feathered, from its birth,Like butterflies' with powdered gold:Still talking on, from gay to grave,And trembling lest some sudden waveOf the soul's deep, grown over-bold,Should sweep the barriers of reserve,And whelm us in tumultuous floodsOf unknown power? What did unnerveOur frames, as if we walked with gods?Unless they, meaning to destroy,Had made us mad with a false heaven,Or drunk with wine and honey givenOnly for immortals to enjoy.Alas, I only knew that lateI'd seemed in an enchanted sphere;That now I felt the web of fateClose round me, with a mortal fear.If only once the gods inviteTo banquets that are crowned with roses;After which the celestial closesAre barred to us; if in despiteOf such high favor, arrogantWe blindly choose to bide our time,Rejecting Heaven's—and ignorantWhat we have spurned, attempt to climbTo heavenly places at our will—Finding no path thereto but one,Nemesis-guarded, where atoneTo heaven, all such as hopeful still,Press toward the mount,—yet find it strewnWith corses, perished by the way,Of those who Fate did importuneToo rashly, or her will gainsay.IfIhave been thrust out from heaven,This night, for insolent disdain,Of putting a young god in pain,How shall I hope to be forgiven?Yet let me not be judged as oneWho mocks at any high behest;My fault being that I kept the throneOf aJovevacant in my breast,And whenApolloclaimed the placeI was too loyal to my Jove;Unmindful how the masks of loveTransfigure all things to our face.Ah, well! if I have lost to fateThe greatest boon that heaven disposes;And closed upon myself the gateTo fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses,On this intoxicating air,The witching influence of the moon,The poet's rhymes that went in tuneTo the night's voices low and rare;To all, that goes to make such hoursLike hasheesh-dreams. These did defy,With contrary fate-compelling power,The intended bliss;—'twas June, not I.
"Come out into the garden, Maud;"In whispered tones young Percy said:He but repeated what he'd readThat afternoon, with soft applaud:A snatch, which for my same name's sake,He caught, out of the sweet, soft song,A lover for his love did make,In half despite of some fond wrong:—And more he quoted, just to showHow still the rhymes ran in his head,With visions of the roses redThat on the poet's pen did grow.
"Come out into the garden, Maud;"
In whispered tones young Percy said:
He but repeated what he'd read
That afternoon, with soft applaud:
A snatch, which for my same name's sake,
He caught, out of the sweet, soft song,
A lover for his love did make,
In half despite of some fond wrong:—
And more he quoted, just to show
How still the rhymes ran in his head,
With visions of the roses red
That on the poet's pen did grow.
The poet's spell was on our blood;The spell of June was in the air;We felt, more than we understood,The charm of being young and fair.Where everything is fair and young—As on June eves doth fitly seem:The Earth herself lies in amongThe misty, azure fields of space,A bride, whose startled blushes glowLess flame-like through the shrouds of laceThat sweeter all her beauties show.
The poet's spell was on our blood;
The spell of June was in the air;
We felt, more than we understood,
The charm of being young and fair.
Where everything is fair and young—
As on June eves doth fitly seem:
The Earth herself lies in among
The misty, azure fields of space,
A bride, whose startled blushes glow
Less flame-like through the shrouds of lace
That sweeter all her beauties show.
We walked and talked beneath the trees—Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June—The roses purpled in the moon:We breathed their fragrance on the breeze—Young Percy's voice is tuned to clearDeep tones, as if his heart were deep:This night it fluttered on my earAs young birds flutter in their sleep.My own voice faltered when I saidHow very sweet such hours must beWith one we love. At that word heShook like the aspen overhead:"Must be!" he drew me from the shade,To read my face to show his own:"Sayare, dear Maud!"—my tongue was stayed;My pliant limbs seemed turned to stone.
We walked and talked beneath the trees—
Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June—
The roses purpled in the moon:
We breathed their fragrance on the breeze—
Young Percy's voice is tuned to clear
Deep tones, as if his heart were deep:
This night it fluttered on my ear
As young birds flutter in their sleep.
My own voice faltered when I said
How very sweet such hours must be
With one we love. At that word he
Shook like the aspen overhead:
"Must be!" he drew me from the shade,
To read my face to show his own:
"Sayare, dear Maud!"—my tongue was stayed;
My pliant limbs seemed turned to stone.
He held my hands I could not move—The nerveless palms together prest—And clasped them tightly to his breast;While in my heart the question strove.The fire-flies flashed like wandering stars—I thought some sprang from out his eyes:Surely some spirit makes or marsAt will our earthly destinies!"Speak, Maud!"—at length I turned away:He must have thought it woman's fear;For, whispering softly in my earSuch gentle thanks as might allayLove's tender shame; left on my brow,And on each hand, a warm light kiss—I feel them burn there even now—But all my fetters fell at this.
He held my hands I could not move—
The nerveless palms together prest—
And clasped them tightly to his breast;
While in my heart the question strove.
The fire-flies flashed like wandering stars—
I thought some sprang from out his eyes:
Surely some spirit makes or mars
At will our earthly destinies!
"Speak, Maud!"—at length I turned away:
He must have thought it woman's fear;
For, whispering softly in my ear
Such gentle thanks as might allay
Love's tender shame; left on my brow,
And on each hand, a warm light kiss—
I feel them burn there even now—
But all my fetters fell at this.
I spoke like an injured queen:It's our own defence when we're surprised—The way our weakness is disguised;I said things that I could not mean,Or ought not—since it was a lieThat love had not been in my mind:'Twas in the air I breathed; the skyShone love, and murmured it the wind.It had absorbed my soul with bliss;My blood ran love in every vein,And to have been beloved againWere heavenly!—so I thought till thisUnlooked for answer to the prayerMy heart was making with its might,Thus challenged, caught in sudden snare,Like two clouds meeting on a height,And, pausing first in short strange lull,Then bursting into awful storm,Opposing feelings multiform,Struggled in silence: and then fullOf our blind woman-wrath, broke forthIn stinging hail of sharp-edged ice,As freezing as the polar north,Yet maddening. O, the poor mean viceWe women have been taught to callBy virtue's name! the holy scornWe feel for lovers left love-lornBy our own coldness, or by the wallOf other love 'twixt them and us!
I spoke like an injured queen:
It's our own defence when we're surprised—
The way our weakness is disguised;
I said things that I could not mean,
Or ought not—since it was a lie
That love had not been in my mind:
'Twas in the air I breathed; the sky
Shone love, and murmured it the wind.
It had absorbed my soul with bliss;
My blood ran love in every vein,
And to have been beloved again
Were heavenly!—so I thought till this
Unlooked for answer to the prayer
My heart was making with its might,
Thus challenged, caught in sudden snare,
Like two clouds meeting on a height,
And, pausing first in short strange lull,
Then bursting into awful storm,
Opposing feelings multiform,
Struggled in silence: and then full
Of our blind woman-wrath, broke forth
In stinging hail of sharp-edged ice,
As freezing as the polar north,
Yet maddening. O, the poor mean vice
We women have been taught to call
By virtue's name! the holy scorn
We feel for lovers left love-lorn
By our own coldness, or by the wall
Of other love 'twixt them and us!
The tempest past, I paused. He stoodSilent,—and yet "Ungenerous!"Was hurled back, plainer than ere couldHis lips have said it, by his eyesFire-flashing, and his pale, set face,Beautiful, and unmarred by traceOf aught save pain and pained surprise.—I quailed at last before that gaze,And even faintly owned my wrong:I said I "spoke in such amazeI could not choose words that belongTo such occasions." Here he smiled,To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh:"June eves disturb us differently,"He said, at length; "and I, beguiledBy something in the air, did doMy Lady Maud unmeant offence;And, what is stranger far, she too,Under the baleful influenceof this fair heaven"—he raised his eyes,And gestured proudly toward the stars—"Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, marsGod's purpose, written on these skies,Painted and uttered in this scene:Acknowledged in each secret heart;We both are wrong, you say; 'twould meanThat we too should be wide apart—And so, adieu!"—with this he went.
The tempest past, I paused. He stood
Silent,—and yet "Ungenerous!"
Was hurled back, plainer than ere could
His lips have said it, by his eyes
Fire-flashing, and his pale, set face,
Beautiful, and unmarred by trace
Of aught save pain and pained surprise.
—I quailed at last before that gaze,
And even faintly owned my wrong:
I said I "spoke in such amaze
I could not choose words that belong
To such occasions." Here he smiled,
To cover one low, quick-drawn sigh:
"June eves disturb us differently,"
He said, at length; "and I, beguiled
By something in the air, did do
My Lady Maud unmeant offence;
And, what is stranger far, she too,
Under the baleful influence
of this fair heaven"—he raised his eyes,
And gestured proudly toward the stars—
"Has done me wrong. Wrong, lady, mars
God's purpose, written on these skies,
Painted and uttered in this scene:
Acknowledged in each secret heart;
We both are wrong, you say; 'twould mean
That we too should be wide apart—
And so, adieu!"—with this he went.
I sat down whitening in the moon,With heat as of a desert noon,Sending its fever vehementAcross my brow, and through my frame—The fever of a wild regret—A vain regret without a name,In which both love and loathing met.
I sat down whitening in the moon,
With heat as of a desert noon,
Sending its fever vehement
Across my brow, and through my frame—
The fever of a wild regret—
A vain regret without a name,
In which both love and loathing met.
Was this the same enchanted airI breathed one little hour ago?Did all these purple roses blowBut yestermorn, so sweet, so fair?Was itthiseve that some one said"Come out into the garden, Maud?"And while the sleepy birds o'erheadChirped out to know who walked abroad,Didweadmire the plumey flowersOn the wide-branched catalpa trees,And locusts, scenting all the breeze;And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?Didwerecall the "black bat Night,"That flew before young Maud walked forth—And say this Night's wings were too brightFor bats'—being feathered, from its birth,Like butterflies' with powdered gold:Still talking on, from gay to grave,And trembling lest some sudden waveOf the soul's deep, grown over-bold,Should sweep the barriers of reserve,And whelm us in tumultuous floodsOf unknown power? What did unnerveOur frames, as if we walked with gods?Unless they, meaning to destroy,Had made us mad with a false heaven,Or drunk with wine and honey givenOnly for immortals to enjoy.
Was this the same enchanted air
I breathed one little hour ago?
Did all these purple roses blow
But yestermorn, so sweet, so fair?
Was itthiseve that some one said
"Come out into the garden, Maud?"
And while the sleepy birds o'erhead
Chirped out to know who walked abroad,
Didweadmire the plumey flowers
On the wide-branched catalpa trees,
And locusts, scenting all the breeze;
And call the balm-trees our bird-towers?
Didwerecall the "black bat Night,"
That flew before young Maud walked forth—
And say this Night's wings were too bright
For bats'—being feathered, from its birth,
Like butterflies' with powdered gold:
Still talking on, from gay to grave,
And trembling lest some sudden wave
Of the soul's deep, grown over-bold,
Should sweep the barriers of reserve,
And whelm us in tumultuous floods
Of unknown power? What did unnerve
Our frames, as if we walked with gods?
Unless they, meaning to destroy,
Had made us mad with a false heaven,
Or drunk with wine and honey given
Only for immortals to enjoy.
Alas, I only knew that lateI'd seemed in an enchanted sphere;That now I felt the web of fateClose round me, with a mortal fear.If only once the gods inviteTo banquets that are crowned with roses;After which the celestial closesAre barred to us; if in despiteOf such high favor, arrogantWe blindly choose to bide our time,Rejecting Heaven's—and ignorantWhat we have spurned, attempt to climbTo heavenly places at our will—Finding no path thereto but one,Nemesis-guarded, where atoneTo heaven, all such as hopeful still,Press toward the mount,—yet find it strewnWith corses, perished by the way,Of those who Fate did importuneToo rashly, or her will gainsay.IfIhave been thrust out from heaven,This night, for insolent disdain,Of putting a young god in pain,How shall I hope to be forgiven?Yet let me not be judged as oneWho mocks at any high behest;My fault being that I kept the throneOf aJovevacant in my breast,And whenApolloclaimed the placeI was too loyal to my Jove;Unmindful how the masks of loveTransfigure all things to our face.
Alas, I only knew that late
I'd seemed in an enchanted sphere;
That now I felt the web of fate
Close round me, with a mortal fear.
If only once the gods invite
To banquets that are crowned with roses;
After which the celestial closes
Are barred to us; if in despite
Of such high favor, arrogant
We blindly choose to bide our time,
Rejecting Heaven's—and ignorant
What we have spurned, attempt to climb
To heavenly places at our will—
Finding no path thereto but one,
Nemesis-guarded, where atone
To heaven, all such as hopeful still,
Press toward the mount,—yet find it strewn
With corses, perished by the way,
Of those who Fate did importune
Too rashly, or her will gainsay.
IfIhave been thrust out from heaven,
This night, for insolent disdain,
Of putting a young god in pain,
How shall I hope to be forgiven?
Yet let me not be judged as one
Who mocks at any high behest;
My fault being that I kept the throne
Of aJovevacant in my breast,
And whenApolloclaimed the place
I was too loyal to my Jove;
Unmindful how the masks of love
Transfigure all things to our face.
Ah, well! if I have lost to fateThe greatest boon that heaven disposes;And closed upon myself the gateTo fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses,On this intoxicating air,The witching influence of the moon,The poet's rhymes that went in tuneTo the night's voices low and rare;To all, that goes to make such hoursLike hasheesh-dreams. These did defy,With contrary fate-compelling power,The intended bliss;—'twas June, not I.
Ah, well! if I have lost to fate
The greatest boon that heaven disposes;
And closed upon myself the gate
To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses,
On this intoxicating air,
The witching influence of the moon,
The poet's rhymes that went in tune
To the night's voices low and rare;
To all, that goes to make such hours
Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy,
With contrary fate-compelling power,
The intended bliss;—'twas June, not I.
LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.
Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless—With less of radiance than the burnished tress,Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold,Kneaded together with the common mold!Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edgesOf ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;Hidden within some mountain's rugged breastFrom man's desire and quest—Would thou could'st speak and tell the mysteryThat shrines thy history!Yet 'tis of little consequence,To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whenceEarthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here,At once the master that men love and fear—Whom they have sought by many strange devices,In ancient river-beds; in intersticesOf hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand,Where curls the tawny sandBy mountain torrents hurried to the main,And thence hurled back again:—Yes, suffered, dared, and patientlyOffered up everything, O gold, to thee!—Home, wife and children, native soil, and allThat once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call;Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted;Wearied for months at sea—yet ever paintedThee as the shining Mecca, that to gainInvalidated pain,Cured the sick soul—made nugatory evilOf man or devil.Alas, and well-a-day! we knowWhat idle dreams were these that fooled men so.On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves,To which they went untended, the poor slavesOf fruitless toil; the victims of a feverCalled home-sickness—no remedy found ever;Or slain by vices that grow rankly whereMen madly do and dare,In alternations of high hope and deep abyssesOf recklessnesses.Painfully, and by violence:Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whenceNature had hidden thee—whose face is wornWith anxious furrows, and her bosom tornIn the hard strife—and ever yet there lingersUpon these hills work for the "effacing fingers"Of time, the healer, who makes all things seemA half forgotten dream;Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together,By touch of wind and weather.Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod!Digged from the earth like a base common sod;I wonder at thee, and thy power to holdThe world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold!Yet do I sadly own thy fascination,And would I gladly show my estimationBy giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt comeAnd cumber up my home;—I'd even promise not to call attentionTo these things that I mention!"The King can do no wrong," and thouArt King indeed to most of us, I trow.Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign willAll that there is of progress, learning, skill,Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might evenInclude religion, though that flouts at heaven—Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss;—And yet men call thee dross!If thou art dross then I mistaken beOf thy identity.Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful!How could I first have said that thou wert dull?How could have wondered that men willinglyGave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee?Theirs was the martyrdom in which was plantedA glorious State, by precious memories haunted:Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fameOf an exalted name:Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition—Ours is the full fruition.Thou, yellow nugget, wert the starThat drew these willing votaries from afar,'Twere wrong to call thee lustreless or baseThat lightest onward all the human race,Emblem art thou, in every song or story,Of highest excellence and brightest glory:Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest HimWho made the cherubim:My reverend thought indeed is not withholden,O nugget golden!
Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless—With less of radiance than the burnished tress,Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold,Kneaded together with the common mold!Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edgesOf ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;Hidden within some mountain's rugged breastFrom man's desire and quest—Would thou could'st speak and tell the mysteryThat shrines thy history!
Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless—
With less of radiance than the burnished tress,
Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold,
Kneaded together with the common mold!
Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges
Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;
Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast
From man's desire and quest—
Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery
That shrines thy history!
Yet 'tis of little consequence,To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whenceEarthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here,At once the master that men love and fear—Whom they have sought by many strange devices,In ancient river-beds; in intersticesOf hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand,Where curls the tawny sandBy mountain torrents hurried to the main,And thence hurled back again:—
Yet 'tis of little consequence,
To-day, to know how thou wert made, or whence
Earthquake and flood have brought thee: thou art here,
At once the master that men love and fear—
Whom they have sought by many strange devices,
In ancient river-beds; in interstices
Of hardest quartz; upon the wave-wet strand,
Where curls the tawny sand
By mountain torrents hurried to the main,
And thence hurled back again:—
Yes, suffered, dared, and patientlyOffered up everything, O gold, to thee!—Home, wife and children, native soil, and allThat once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call;Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted;Wearied for months at sea—yet ever paintedThee as the shining Mecca, that to gainInvalidated pain,Cured the sick soul—made nugatory evilOf man or devil.
Yes, suffered, dared, and patiently
Offered up everything, O gold, to thee!—
Home, wife and children, native soil, and all
That once they deemed life's sweetest, at thy call;
Fled over burning plains; in deserts fainted;
Wearied for months at sea—yet ever painted
Thee as the shining Mecca, that to gain
Invalidated pain,
Cured the sick soul—made nugatory evil
Of man or devil.
Alas, and well-a-day! we knowWhat idle dreams were these that fooled men so.On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves,To which they went untended, the poor slavesOf fruitless toil; the victims of a feverCalled home-sickness—no remedy found ever;Or slain by vices that grow rankly whereMen madly do and dare,In alternations of high hope and deep abyssesOf recklessnesses.
Alas, and well-a-day! we know
What idle dreams were these that fooled men so.
On yonder hillside sleep in nameless graves,
To which they went untended, the poor slaves
Of fruitless toil; the victims of a fever
Called home-sickness—no remedy found ever;
Or slain by vices that grow rankly where
Men madly do and dare,
In alternations of high hope and deep abysses
Of recklessnesses.
Painfully, and by violence:Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whenceNature had hidden thee—whose face is wornWith anxious furrows, and her bosom tornIn the hard strife—and ever yet there lingersUpon these hills work for the "effacing fingers"Of time, the healer, who makes all things seemA half forgotten dream;Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together,By touch of wind and weather.
Painfully, and by violence:
Even as heaven is taken, thou wert dragged whence
Nature had hidden thee—whose face is worn
With anxious furrows, and her bosom torn
In the hard strife—and ever yet there lingers
Upon these hills work for the "effacing fingers"
Of time, the healer, who makes all things seem
A half forgotten dream;
Who smooths deep furrows and lone graves together,
By touch of wind and weather.
Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod!Digged from the earth like a base common sod;I wonder at thee, and thy power to holdThe world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold!Yet do I sadly own thy fascination,And would I gladly show my estimationBy giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt comeAnd cumber up my home;—I'd even promise not to call attentionTo these things that I mention!
Thou heavy, lustreless, dull clod!
Digged from the earth like a base common sod;
I wonder at thee, and thy power to hold
The world in bond to thee, thou yellow gold!
Yet do I sadly own thy fascination,
And would I gladly show my estimation
By giving house-room to thee, if thou'lt come
And cumber up my home;—
I'd even promise not to call attention
To these things that I mention!
"The King can do no wrong," and thouArt King indeed to most of us, I trow.Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign willAll that there is of progress, learning, skill,Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might evenInclude religion, though that flouts at heaven—Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss;—And yet men call thee dross!If thou art dross then I mistaken beOf thy identity.
"The King can do no wrong," and thou
Art King indeed to most of us, I trow.
Thou'rt an enchanter, at whose sovereign will
All that there is of progress, learning, skill,
Of beauty, culture, grace—and I might even
Include religion, though that flouts at heaven—
Comes at thy bidding, flies before thy loss;—
And yet men call thee dross!
If thou art dross then I mistaken be
Of thy identity.
Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful!How could I first have said that thou wert dull?How could have wondered that men willinglyGave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee?Theirs was the martyrdom in which was plantedA glorious State, by precious memories haunted:Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fameOf an exalted name:Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition—Ours is the full fruition.
Ah, solid, weighty, beautiful!
How could I first have said that thou wert dull?
How could have wondered that men willingly
Gave up their homes, and toiled and died for thee?
Theirs was the martyrdom in which was planted
A glorious State, by precious memories haunted:
Ours is the comfort, ease, the power, the fame
Of an exalted name:
Theirs was the struggle of a proud ambition—
Ours is the full fruition.
Thou, yellow nugget, wert the starThat drew these willing votaries from afar,'Twere wrong to call thee lustreless or baseThat lightest onward all the human race,Emblem art thou, in every song or story,Of highest excellence and brightest glory:Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest HimWho made the cherubim:My reverend thought indeed is not withholden,O nugget golden!
Thou, yellow nugget, wert the star
That drew these willing votaries from afar,
'Twere wrong to call thee lustreless or base
That lightest onward all the human race,
Emblem art thou, in every song or story,
Of highest excellence and brightest glory:
Thou crown'st the angels, and enthronest Him
Who made the cherubim:
My reverend thought indeed is not withholden,
O nugget golden!
MAGDALENA.
You say there's a Being all-loving,Whose nature is justice and pity;Could you say where you think he is roving?We have sought him from city to city,But he never is where we can find him,When outrage and sorrow beset us;It is strange we are always behind him,Or that He should forever forget us.But being a god, he is thinkingOf the masculine side of the Human;And though just, it would surely be sinkingThe God to be thoughtful for woman.For him and by him was man made:Sole heir of the earth and its treasures;An after-thought, woman—the handmaid,Not of God, but of man and his pleasures.Should you say that man's God would reprove us,If we found him and showed him our bruises?It is dreary with no one to love us,Or to hold back the hand that abuses:Man's hand, that first led and caressed us,Man's lips, that first kissed and betrayed;—If his God could know how he's oppressed us,Do you think that we need be afraid?For we loved him—and he who stood nearestTo God, who could doubt or disdain?When he swore by that God, and the dearestOf boons that he hoped to obtainOf that God, that he truly would keep usIn his heart of hearts precious and only:Say, how could we think he would steep usIn sorrow, and leave us thus lonely?But you see how it is: he has left us,This demi-god, heir of creation;Of our only good gifts has bereft us,And mocked at our mad desolation:Says that we knew that such oaths would be broken—Says we lured him to lie and betray;Quotes the word of his God as a tokenOf the law that makes woman his prey.And now what shall we do? We have givenTo this master our handmaiden's dower:Our beauty and youth, aye, and evenOur souls have we left in his power.Though we thought when we loved him, that lovingMade of woman an angel, not demon;We have found, to our fond faith's disproving,That love makes of woman a leman!Yes, we gave, and he took: took not merelyWhat we gave, for his lying pretences:But our whole woman world, that so dearlyWe held by till then: our defencesOf home, of fair fame; the affectionOf parents and kindred; the humanDelight of child-love; the protectionThat is everywhere owed to a woman.You say there's a Being all-loving,Whose nature is justice and pity:Could you say where you think he is roving?We have sought him from city to city.We have called unto him, our eyes streamingWith the tears of our pain and despair:We have shouted unto him blaspheming,And whispered unto him in prayer.But he sleeps, or is absent, or lendingHis ear to man's prouder petition:And the black silence over us bendingScorches hot with the breath of perdition.For this fair world of man's, in which womanPays for all that she gets with her beauty,Is a desert that starves out the human,When her charms charm not squarely with duty.For man were we made, says the preacher,To love him and serve him in meekness,Of man's God is man solely the teacherInterpreting unto our weakness:He the teacher, the master, dispenserNot only of law, but of living,Breaks his own law with us, then turns censor,Accusing, but never forgiving.Do you think that we have not been nursingResentment for wrong and betrayal?From our hearts, filled with gall, rises cursing,To our own and our masters' dismayal.'Tis for this that we seek the all-loving,Whose nature is justice and pity;And we'll find Him, wherever he's roving,In country, in town, or in city.He must show us his justice, who made us;He must place sin where sin was conceived;We must know if man's God will upbraid usBecause we both loved and believed.We must know if man's riches and power,His titles, crowns, sceptres and ermine,Weigh with God against womanhood's dower,Or whether man's guilt they determine.It would seem that man's God should restrain him,Or else should avenge our dishonor:Shall the cries of the hopeless not pain him,Or shall woman take all guilt upon her?Let us challenge the maker that made us;Let us cry to Christ, son of a woman;We shall learn if, when man has betrayed us,Heaven's justice accords with the human.We must know if because we were lowly,And kept in the place man assigned us,He could seek us with passions unholyAnd be free, while his penalties bind us.We would ask if his gold buys exemption,Or whether his manhood acquits him;How it is that we scarce find redemptionFor sins less than his self-law permits him.Do we dare the Almighty to question?Shall the clay to the potter appeal?To whom else shall we go with suggestion?Shall the vase not complain to the wheel?God answered Job out of the groaningOf thunder and whirlwind and hailing;Will he turn a deaf ear to our moaning,Or reply to our prayers with railing?Did you speak of a Christ who is tender—A deity born of a woman?Of the sorrowful, God and defender,And brother and friend of the human?Long ago He ascended to heaven,Long ago was His teaching forgotten;The lump has no longer the leaven,But is heavy, unwholesome and rotten.The gods are all man's, whom he praisesFor laws that make woman his creature;For the rest, theological mazesFurnish work for the salaried preacher.In the youth of the world it was better,We had deities then of our choosing;We could pray, though we wore then a fetter,To aGoddessof binding and loosing.We could kneel in a grove or a temple,No man's heavy hand on our shoulder:Had in Pallas Athene exampleTo make womanhood stronger and bolder.But the temples are broken and plundered,Sacred altars profanely o'erthrown;Where the oracle trembled and thundered,Are a cavern, a fount, and a stone.Yet we would of the Christ hear the story,'Twas familiar in days that are ended;His humility, purity, glory,Are they not into heaven ascended?We see naught but scorning and hating;We hear naught but threats and contemning:For your Christian is good and berating,And your sinner is first in condemning.Should you say that the Christ would reprove us,If we found him and told him our trouble?It is fearful with no one to love us,And our pain and despair growing double.It is mad'ning to feel we're excludedFrom the homes of the mothers that bore us;And that man, by no false arts deluded,May enter unchallenged before us.It is hard to be humble when trodden;We cannot be meek when oppressed;Nor pure while our souls are made soddenWith loathing that can't be confessed;Or true, while our bread and our shelterBy a lying pretence is obtained—Deceived, in deception we welter;By a touch are we evermore stained.O hard lot of woman! the creatureOf a creature whose God is asleep,Or gone on a journey. You teach herShe was made to sin, suffer, and weep;We wait for a new revelation,We cry for a God of our own;O God unrevealed, bring salvation,From our necks lift the collar of stone!
You say there's a Being all-loving,Whose nature is justice and pity;Could you say where you think he is roving?We have sought him from city to city,But he never is where we can find him,When outrage and sorrow beset us;It is strange we are always behind him,Or that He should forever forget us.
You say there's a Being all-loving,
Whose nature is justice and pity;
Could you say where you think he is roving?
We have sought him from city to city,
But he never is where we can find him,
When outrage and sorrow beset us;
It is strange we are always behind him,
Or that He should forever forget us.
But being a god, he is thinkingOf the masculine side of the Human;And though just, it would surely be sinkingThe God to be thoughtful for woman.For him and by him was man made:Sole heir of the earth and its treasures;An after-thought, woman—the handmaid,Not of God, but of man and his pleasures.
But being a god, he is thinking
Of the masculine side of the Human;
And though just, it would surely be sinking
The God to be thoughtful for woman.
For him and by him was man made:
Sole heir of the earth and its treasures;
An after-thought, woman—the handmaid,
Not of God, but of man and his pleasures.
Should you say that man's God would reprove us,If we found him and showed him our bruises?It is dreary with no one to love us,Or to hold back the hand that abuses:Man's hand, that first led and caressed us,Man's lips, that first kissed and betrayed;—If his God could know how he's oppressed us,Do you think that we need be afraid?
Should you say that man's God would reprove us,
If we found him and showed him our bruises?
It is dreary with no one to love us,
Or to hold back the hand that abuses:
Man's hand, that first led and caressed us,
Man's lips, that first kissed and betrayed;—
If his God could know how he's oppressed us,
Do you think that we need be afraid?
For we loved him—and he who stood nearestTo God, who could doubt or disdain?When he swore by that God, and the dearestOf boons that he hoped to obtainOf that God, that he truly would keep usIn his heart of hearts precious and only:Say, how could we think he would steep usIn sorrow, and leave us thus lonely?
For we loved him—and he who stood nearest
To God, who could doubt or disdain?
When he swore by that God, and the dearest
Of boons that he hoped to obtain
Of that God, that he truly would keep us
In his heart of hearts precious and only:
Say, how could we think he would steep us
In sorrow, and leave us thus lonely?
But you see how it is: he has left us,This demi-god, heir of creation;Of our only good gifts has bereft us,And mocked at our mad desolation:Says that we knew that such oaths would be broken—Says we lured him to lie and betray;Quotes the word of his God as a tokenOf the law that makes woman his prey.
But you see how it is: he has left us,
This demi-god, heir of creation;
Of our only good gifts has bereft us,
And mocked at our mad desolation:
Says that we knew that such oaths would be broken—
Says we lured him to lie and betray;
Quotes the word of his God as a token
Of the law that makes woman his prey.
And now what shall we do? We have givenTo this master our handmaiden's dower:Our beauty and youth, aye, and evenOur souls have we left in his power.Though we thought when we loved him, that lovingMade of woman an angel, not demon;We have found, to our fond faith's disproving,That love makes of woman a leman!
And now what shall we do? We have given
To this master our handmaiden's dower:
Our beauty and youth, aye, and even
Our souls have we left in his power.
Though we thought when we loved him, that loving
Made of woman an angel, not demon;
We have found, to our fond faith's disproving,
That love makes of woman a leman!
Yes, we gave, and he took: took not merelyWhat we gave, for his lying pretences:But our whole woman world, that so dearlyWe held by till then: our defencesOf home, of fair fame; the affectionOf parents and kindred; the humanDelight of child-love; the protectionThat is everywhere owed to a woman.
Yes, we gave, and he took: took not merely
What we gave, for his lying pretences:
But our whole woman world, that so dearly
We held by till then: our defences
Of home, of fair fame; the affection
Of parents and kindred; the human
Delight of child-love; the protection
That is everywhere owed to a woman.
You say there's a Being all-loving,Whose nature is justice and pity:Could you say where you think he is roving?We have sought him from city to city.We have called unto him, our eyes streamingWith the tears of our pain and despair:We have shouted unto him blaspheming,And whispered unto him in prayer.
You say there's a Being all-loving,
Whose nature is justice and pity:
Could you say where you think he is roving?
We have sought him from city to city.
We have called unto him, our eyes streaming
With the tears of our pain and despair:
We have shouted unto him blaspheming,
And whispered unto him in prayer.
But he sleeps, or is absent, or lendingHis ear to man's prouder petition:And the black silence over us bendingScorches hot with the breath of perdition.For this fair world of man's, in which womanPays for all that she gets with her beauty,Is a desert that starves out the human,When her charms charm not squarely with duty.
But he sleeps, or is absent, or lending
His ear to man's prouder petition:
And the black silence over us bending
Scorches hot with the breath of perdition.
For this fair world of man's, in which woman
Pays for all that she gets with her beauty,
Is a desert that starves out the human,
When her charms charm not squarely with duty.
For man were we made, says the preacher,To love him and serve him in meekness,Of man's God is man solely the teacherInterpreting unto our weakness:He the teacher, the master, dispenserNot only of law, but of living,Breaks his own law with us, then turns censor,Accusing, but never forgiving.
For man were we made, says the preacher,
To love him and serve him in meekness,
Of man's God is man solely the teacher
Interpreting unto our weakness:
He the teacher, the master, dispenser
Not only of law, but of living,
Breaks his own law with us, then turns censor,
Accusing, but never forgiving.
Do you think that we have not been nursingResentment for wrong and betrayal?From our hearts, filled with gall, rises cursing,To our own and our masters' dismayal.'Tis for this that we seek the all-loving,Whose nature is justice and pity;And we'll find Him, wherever he's roving,In country, in town, or in city.
Do you think that we have not been nursing
Resentment for wrong and betrayal?
From our hearts, filled with gall, rises cursing,
To our own and our masters' dismayal.
'Tis for this that we seek the all-loving,
Whose nature is justice and pity;
And we'll find Him, wherever he's roving,
In country, in town, or in city.
He must show us his justice, who made us;He must place sin where sin was conceived;We must know if man's God will upbraid usBecause we both loved and believed.We must know if man's riches and power,His titles, crowns, sceptres and ermine,Weigh with God against womanhood's dower,Or whether man's guilt they determine.
He must show us his justice, who made us;
He must place sin where sin was conceived;
We must know if man's God will upbraid us
Because we both loved and believed.
We must know if man's riches and power,
His titles, crowns, sceptres and ermine,
Weigh with God against womanhood's dower,
Or whether man's guilt they determine.
It would seem that man's God should restrain him,Or else should avenge our dishonor:Shall the cries of the hopeless not pain him,Or shall woman take all guilt upon her?Let us challenge the maker that made us;Let us cry to Christ, son of a woman;We shall learn if, when man has betrayed us,Heaven's justice accords with the human.
It would seem that man's God should restrain him,
Or else should avenge our dishonor:
Shall the cries of the hopeless not pain him,
Or shall woman take all guilt upon her?
Let us challenge the maker that made us;
Let us cry to Christ, son of a woman;
We shall learn if, when man has betrayed us,
Heaven's justice accords with the human.
We must know if because we were lowly,And kept in the place man assigned us,He could seek us with passions unholyAnd be free, while his penalties bind us.We would ask if his gold buys exemption,Or whether his manhood acquits him;How it is that we scarce find redemptionFor sins less than his self-law permits him.
We must know if because we were lowly,
And kept in the place man assigned us,
He could seek us with passions unholy
And be free, while his penalties bind us.
We would ask if his gold buys exemption,
Or whether his manhood acquits him;
How it is that we scarce find redemption
For sins less than his self-law permits him.
Do we dare the Almighty to question?Shall the clay to the potter appeal?To whom else shall we go with suggestion?Shall the vase not complain to the wheel?God answered Job out of the groaningOf thunder and whirlwind and hailing;Will he turn a deaf ear to our moaning,Or reply to our prayers with railing?
Do we dare the Almighty to question?
Shall the clay to the potter appeal?
To whom else shall we go with suggestion?
Shall the vase not complain to the wheel?
God answered Job out of the groaning
Of thunder and whirlwind and hailing;
Will he turn a deaf ear to our moaning,
Or reply to our prayers with railing?
Did you speak of a Christ who is tender—A deity born of a woman?Of the sorrowful, God and defender,And brother and friend of the human?Long ago He ascended to heaven,Long ago was His teaching forgotten;The lump has no longer the leaven,But is heavy, unwholesome and rotten.
Did you speak of a Christ who is tender—
A deity born of a woman?
Of the sorrowful, God and defender,
And brother and friend of the human?
Long ago He ascended to heaven,
Long ago was His teaching forgotten;
The lump has no longer the leaven,
But is heavy, unwholesome and rotten.
The gods are all man's, whom he praisesFor laws that make woman his creature;For the rest, theological mazesFurnish work for the salaried preacher.In the youth of the world it was better,We had deities then of our choosing;We could pray, though we wore then a fetter,To aGoddessof binding and loosing.
The gods are all man's, whom he praises
For laws that make woman his creature;
For the rest, theological mazes
Furnish work for the salaried preacher.
In the youth of the world it was better,
We had deities then of our choosing;
We could pray, though we wore then a fetter,
To aGoddessof binding and loosing.
We could kneel in a grove or a temple,No man's heavy hand on our shoulder:Had in Pallas Athene exampleTo make womanhood stronger and bolder.But the temples are broken and plundered,Sacred altars profanely o'erthrown;Where the oracle trembled and thundered,Are a cavern, a fount, and a stone.
We could kneel in a grove or a temple,
No man's heavy hand on our shoulder:
Had in Pallas Athene example
To make womanhood stronger and bolder.
But the temples are broken and plundered,
Sacred altars profanely o'erthrown;
Where the oracle trembled and thundered,
Are a cavern, a fount, and a stone.
Yet we would of the Christ hear the story,'Twas familiar in days that are ended;His humility, purity, glory,Are they not into heaven ascended?We see naught but scorning and hating;We hear naught but threats and contemning:For your Christian is good and berating,And your sinner is first in condemning.
Yet we would of the Christ hear the story,
'Twas familiar in days that are ended;
His humility, purity, glory,
Are they not into heaven ascended?
We see naught but scorning and hating;
We hear naught but threats and contemning:
For your Christian is good and berating,
And your sinner is first in condemning.
Should you say that the Christ would reprove us,If we found him and told him our trouble?It is fearful with no one to love us,And our pain and despair growing double.It is mad'ning to feel we're excludedFrom the homes of the mothers that bore us;And that man, by no false arts deluded,May enter unchallenged before us.
Should you say that the Christ would reprove us,
If we found him and told him our trouble?
It is fearful with no one to love us,
And our pain and despair growing double.
It is mad'ning to feel we're excluded
From the homes of the mothers that bore us;
And that man, by no false arts deluded,
May enter unchallenged before us.
It is hard to be humble when trodden;We cannot be meek when oppressed;Nor pure while our souls are made soddenWith loathing that can't be confessed;Or true, while our bread and our shelterBy a lying pretence is obtained—Deceived, in deception we welter;By a touch are we evermore stained.
It is hard to be humble when trodden;
We cannot be meek when oppressed;
Nor pure while our souls are made sodden
With loathing that can't be confessed;
Or true, while our bread and our shelter
By a lying pretence is obtained—
Deceived, in deception we welter;
By a touch are we evermore stained.
O hard lot of woman! the creatureOf a creature whose God is asleep,Or gone on a journey. You teach herShe was made to sin, suffer, and weep;We wait for a new revelation,We cry for a God of our own;O God unrevealed, bring salvation,From our necks lift the collar of stone!
O hard lot of woman! the creature
Of a creature whose God is asleep,
Or gone on a journey. You teach her
She was made to sin, suffer, and weep;
We wait for a new revelation,
We cry for a God of our own;
O God unrevealed, bring salvation,
From our necks lift the collar of stone!
REPOSE.
I lay me down straight, with closed eyes,And pale hands folded across my breast,Thinking, unpained, of the sad surpriseOf those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest;And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor,Can disturb my repose—for my sleep is forever.I know that a smile will lie hid in my eyes,Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in my breast,When they sit down to mourning, with tears and with sighs,And shudder at death, which to me is but rest.So sweet to be parted at once from our pain;To put off our care as a robe that is worn;To drop like a link broken out of a chain,And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne:And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting,Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting.To be certain of this—that my faults perish first;That when they behold me so calmly asleep,They can but forgive me my errors at worst,And speak of my praises alone as they weep."Whom the gods love die young," they will say;Though they should think it, they will not say so:"Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away,Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!"No, when they see how divine my repose is,They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses;And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers,How always I loved them to wear on my breast;And strewing them over my bosom in showers,With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.There is one who will come when the rest are away;One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair;He knows how I liked it, worn always that way,And his fingers will tremble while placing it there.Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes,When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses;He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers,And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest;But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours,Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain,That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose,Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain,And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes:They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done,Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone;They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true;They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast;But repeat to each other, as if they were new,Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream,The terror of waking comes back to my heart;Why is it not as I thus make it seem?Must I come back to the world, ere we part?Deep was the swoon of my spirit—why break it?Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it?Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises—The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast—When shall I learn "sweet adversity's uses,"And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest!
I lay me down straight, with closed eyes,And pale hands folded across my breast,Thinking, unpained, of the sad surpriseOf those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest;And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor,Can disturb my repose—for my sleep is forever.I know that a smile will lie hid in my eyes,Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in my breast,When they sit down to mourning, with tears and with sighs,And shudder at death, which to me is but rest.
I lay me down straight, with closed eyes,
And pale hands folded across my breast,
Thinking, unpained, of the sad surprise
Of those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest;
And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor,
Can disturb my repose—for my sleep is forever.
I know that a smile will lie hid in my eyes,
Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in my breast,
When they sit down to mourning, with tears and with sighs,
And shudder at death, which to me is but rest.
So sweet to be parted at once from our pain;To put off our care as a robe that is worn;To drop like a link broken out of a chain,And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne:And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting,Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting.To be certain of this—that my faults perish first;That when they behold me so calmly asleep,They can but forgive me my errors at worst,And speak of my praises alone as they weep.
So sweet to be parted at once from our pain;
To put off our care as a robe that is worn;
To drop like a link broken out of a chain,
And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne:
And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting,
Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting.
To be certain of this—that my faults perish first;
That when they behold me so calmly asleep,
They can but forgive me my errors at worst,
And speak of my praises alone as they weep.
"Whom the gods love die young," they will say;Though they should think it, they will not say so:"Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away,Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!"No, when they see how divine my repose is,They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses;And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers,How always I loved them to wear on my breast;And strewing them over my bosom in showers,With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.
"Whom the gods love die young," they will say;
Though they should think it, they will not say so:
"Whom the world pierces with thorns pass away,
Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!"
No, when they see how divine my repose is,
They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses;
And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers,
How always I loved them to wear on my breast;
And strewing them over my bosom in showers,
With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.
There is one who will come when the rest are away;One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair;He knows how I liked it, worn always that way,And his fingers will tremble while placing it there.Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes,When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses;He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers,And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest;But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours,Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.
There is one who will come when the rest are away;
One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair;
He knows how I liked it, worn always that way,
And his fingers will tremble while placing it there.
Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes,
When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses;
He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers,
And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest;
But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours,
Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.
So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain,That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose,Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain,And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes:They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done,Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone;They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true;They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast;But repeat to each other, as if they were new,Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.
So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain,
That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose,
Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain,
And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes:
They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done,
Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone;
They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true;
They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast;
But repeat to each other, as if they were new,
Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.
Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream,The terror of waking comes back to my heart;Why is it not as I thus make it seem?Must I come back to the world, ere we part?Deep was the swoon of my spirit—why break it?Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it?Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises—The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast—When shall I learn "sweet adversity's uses,"And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest!
Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream,
The terror of waking comes back to my heart;
Why is it not as I thus make it seem?
Must I come back to the world, ere we part?
Deep was the swoon of my spirit—why break it?
Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it?
Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises—
The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast—
When shall I learn "sweet adversity's uses,"
And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest!
ASPASIA.
O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise,What dreams I had of you, beside the sea,In far Miletus! while the golden daysSlid into silver nights, so sweet to me;For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er,Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow—Libations of both heart and wine did pour,And offered up my being with my vow.'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at lastMy life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learnTo love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast,Your captive and your conquerer in turn;Am I not shamed to match my charms with thoseOf fair boy-beauties? gentled for your loveTo match the freshness of the morning rose,And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove.O, men of Athens! by the purple seaIn far Miletus, when I dreamed of you,Watching the winged ships that invited meTo follow their white track upon the blue;'Twas the desire to mate my lofty soulThat drew me ever like a viewless chainToward Homer's land of heroes, 'til I stoleAway from home and dreams, to you and pain.I brought you beauty—but yourboysinvadeMy woman's realm of love with girlish airs.I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade,To charm, to teach, with your philosophers.But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold;And I who am your equal am cast downLevel with those who sell themselves for gold—A crownless queen—a woman of the town!Ye vain Athenians, know this, that IBy your hard laws am only made more free;Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry,But, being unwed, I meet you openly,A foreigner, you cannot wed with me;But I can win your hearts and sway your will,And make your free wives envious to seeWhat power Aspasia wields, Milesian still.Who would not be beloved of Pericles?I could have had all Athens at my feet;And have them for my flatterers, when I please;Yet, one great man's great love is far more sweet!He is my proper mate as I am his—You see my young dreams were not all in vain—And I have tasted of ineffable bliss,If I am stung at times with fiery pain.It is not that I long to be a wifeBy your Athenian laws, and sit at homeBehind a lattice, prisoner for life,With my lord left at liberty to roam;Nor is it that I crave the right to beAt the symposium or the Agora known;My grievance is, that your proud dames to meCame to be taught, in secret and alone.They fear; whatdothey fear? is't me or you?Am I not pure as any of them all?But your laws are against me; and 'tis true,If fame is lowering, I have had a fall!O, selfish men of Athens, shall the worldRemember you, and pass my glory by?Nay, 'til from their proud heights your names are hurled,Mine shall blaze with them on your Grecian sky.Am I then boastful? It is half in scornOf caring for your love, or for your praise,As women do, and must. Had I been bornIn this proud Athens, I had spent my daysIn jealousy of boys, and stolen hoursWith some Milesian, of a questioned place,Learning of her the use of woman's powersUsurped by men of this patrician race.Alas! I would I were a child again,Steeped in dream langours by the purple sea;And Athens but the vision it was then,Its great men good, its noble women free:That I in some winged ship should strive to flyTo reach this goal, and founder and go down!O impious thought, how could I wish to die,With all that I have felt and learned unknown?Nay, I am glad to be to future timesAs much Athenian as is Pericles;Proud to be named by men of other climesThe friend and pupil of great Socrates.What is the gossip of the city damesBehind their lattices to one like me?More glorious than their high patrician namesI hold my privilege of being free!And yet I would that they were free as I;It angers me that women are so weak,Looking askance when ere they pass me byLest on a chance their lords should see us speak;And coming next day to an audienceIn hope of learning to resemble me:They wish, they tell me, to learn eloquence—The lesson they should learn isliberty.O Athens, city of the beautiful,Home of all art, all elegance, all grace;Whose orators and poets sway the soulAs the winds move the sea's unstable face;O wonderous city, nurse and home of mind,This is my oracle to you this day—No generous growth from starved roots will you find,But fruitless blossoms weakening to decay.You take my meaning? Sappho is no more,And no more Sapphos will be, in your time;The tree is dead on one side that beforeRan with such burning sap of love and rhyme.Your glorious city is the utmost flowerOf a one-sided culture, that will spendItself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour,It runs its sources dry, and so must end.That race is doomed, behind whose latticesIts once free women are constrained to peerUpon the world of men with vacant eyes;It was not so in Homer's time, I hear.But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store,Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves;They're built into your walls, beside your door,And bend beneath your lofty architraves.A woman of the race that looks uponThe sculptured emblems of captivity,Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son;And none shall know the worth of liberty.Am I seditious?—Nay, then, I will keepMy lesson for your dames when next they stealOn tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleepSecurely, and dream well: we wish your weal!Why, what vain prattle: but my heart is soreWith thinking on the emptiness of things,And these Athenians, treacherous to the core,Who hung on Pericles with flatterings.I would indeed I were a little child,Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sandsIn far Miletus, where the airs blow mild,And countless looms throb under busy hands.The busy hand must calm the busy thought,And labor cool the passions of the hour;To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought,What signifies the party last in power?But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophersWho reason on the nature of the soul;And all the vain array of orators,Who strove to hold the people in control.Between the poets, artists, critics, all,Who form a faction or who found a school,We weave Penelope's web with hearts of gall,And my poor brain is oft the weary tool.Yet do I choose this life. What is to mePeace or good fame, away from all of these,But living death? I do choose liberty,And leave to Athens' dames their soulless ease.The time shall come, when Athens is no more,And you and all your gods have passed away;That other men, upon another shore,Shall from your errors learn a better way.To them eternal justice will revealEternal truth, and in its better lightAll that your legal falsehoods now conceal,Will stand forth clearly in the whole world's sight.
O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise,What dreams I had of you, beside the sea,In far Miletus! while the golden daysSlid into silver nights, so sweet to me;For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er,Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow—Libations of both heart and wine did pour,And offered up my being with my vow.
O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise,
What dreams I had of you, beside the sea,
In far Miletus! while the golden days
Slid into silver nights, so sweet to me;
For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er,
Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow—
Libations of both heart and wine did pour,
And offered up my being with my vow.
'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at lastMy life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learnTo love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast,Your captive and your conquerer in turn;Am I not shamed to match my charms with thoseOf fair boy-beauties? gentled for your loveTo match the freshness of the morning rose,And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove.
'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at last
My life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learn
To love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast,
Your captive and your conquerer in turn;
Am I not shamed to match my charms with those
Of fair boy-beauties? gentled for your love
To match the freshness of the morning rose,
And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove.
O, men of Athens! by the purple seaIn far Miletus, when I dreamed of you,Watching the winged ships that invited meTo follow their white track upon the blue;'Twas the desire to mate my lofty soulThat drew me ever like a viewless chainToward Homer's land of heroes, 'til I stoleAway from home and dreams, to you and pain.
O, men of Athens! by the purple sea
In far Miletus, when I dreamed of you,
Watching the winged ships that invited me
To follow their white track upon the blue;
'Twas the desire to mate my lofty soul
That drew me ever like a viewless chain
Toward Homer's land of heroes, 'til I stole
Away from home and dreams, to you and pain.
I brought you beauty—but yourboysinvadeMy woman's realm of love with girlish airs.I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade,To charm, to teach, with your philosophers.But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold;And I who am your equal am cast downLevel with those who sell themselves for gold—A crownless queen—a woman of the town!
I brought you beauty—but yourboysinvade
My woman's realm of love with girlish airs.
I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade,
To charm, to teach, with your philosophers.
But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold;
And I who am your equal am cast down
Level with those who sell themselves for gold—
A crownless queen—a woman of the town!
Ye vain Athenians, know this, that IBy your hard laws am only made more free;Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry,But, being unwed, I meet you openly,A foreigner, you cannot wed with me;But I can win your hearts and sway your will,And make your free wives envious to seeWhat power Aspasia wields, Milesian still.
Ye vain Athenians, know this, that I
By your hard laws am only made more free;
Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry,
But, being unwed, I meet you openly,
A foreigner, you cannot wed with me;
But I can win your hearts and sway your will,
And make your free wives envious to see
What power Aspasia wields, Milesian still.
Who would not be beloved of Pericles?I could have had all Athens at my feet;And have them for my flatterers, when I please;Yet, one great man's great love is far more sweet!He is my proper mate as I am his—You see my young dreams were not all in vain—And I have tasted of ineffable bliss,If I am stung at times with fiery pain.
Who would not be beloved of Pericles?
I could have had all Athens at my feet;
And have them for my flatterers, when I please;
Yet, one great man's great love is far more sweet!
He is my proper mate as I am his—
You see my young dreams were not all in vain—
And I have tasted of ineffable bliss,
If I am stung at times with fiery pain.
It is not that I long to be a wifeBy your Athenian laws, and sit at homeBehind a lattice, prisoner for life,With my lord left at liberty to roam;Nor is it that I crave the right to beAt the symposium or the Agora known;My grievance is, that your proud dames to meCame to be taught, in secret and alone.
It is not that I long to be a wife
By your Athenian laws, and sit at home
Behind a lattice, prisoner for life,
With my lord left at liberty to roam;
Nor is it that I crave the right to be
At the symposium or the Agora known;
My grievance is, that your proud dames to me
Came to be taught, in secret and alone.
They fear; whatdothey fear? is't me or you?Am I not pure as any of them all?But your laws are against me; and 'tis true,If fame is lowering, I have had a fall!O, selfish men of Athens, shall the worldRemember you, and pass my glory by?Nay, 'til from their proud heights your names are hurled,Mine shall blaze with them on your Grecian sky.
They fear; whatdothey fear? is't me or you?
Am I not pure as any of them all?
But your laws are against me; and 'tis true,
If fame is lowering, I have had a fall!
O, selfish men of Athens, shall the world
Remember you, and pass my glory by?
Nay, 'til from their proud heights your names are hurled,
Mine shall blaze with them on your Grecian sky.
Am I then boastful? It is half in scornOf caring for your love, or for your praise,As women do, and must. Had I been bornIn this proud Athens, I had spent my daysIn jealousy of boys, and stolen hoursWith some Milesian, of a questioned place,Learning of her the use of woman's powersUsurped by men of this patrician race.
Am I then boastful? It is half in scorn
Of caring for your love, or for your praise,
As women do, and must. Had I been born
In this proud Athens, I had spent my days
In jealousy of boys, and stolen hours
With some Milesian, of a questioned place,
Learning of her the use of woman's powers
Usurped by men of this patrician race.
Alas! I would I were a child again,Steeped in dream langours by the purple sea;And Athens but the vision it was then,Its great men good, its noble women free:That I in some winged ship should strive to flyTo reach this goal, and founder and go down!O impious thought, how could I wish to die,With all that I have felt and learned unknown?
Alas! I would I were a child again,
Steeped in dream langours by the purple sea;
And Athens but the vision it was then,
Its great men good, its noble women free:
That I in some winged ship should strive to fly
To reach this goal, and founder and go down!
O impious thought, how could I wish to die,
With all that I have felt and learned unknown?
Nay, I am glad to be to future timesAs much Athenian as is Pericles;Proud to be named by men of other climesThe friend and pupil of great Socrates.What is the gossip of the city damesBehind their lattices to one like me?More glorious than their high patrician namesI hold my privilege of being free!
Nay, I am glad to be to future times
As much Athenian as is Pericles;
Proud to be named by men of other climes
The friend and pupil of great Socrates.
What is the gossip of the city dames
Behind their lattices to one like me?
More glorious than their high patrician names
I hold my privilege of being free!
And yet I would that they were free as I;It angers me that women are so weak,Looking askance when ere they pass me byLest on a chance their lords should see us speak;And coming next day to an audienceIn hope of learning to resemble me:They wish, they tell me, to learn eloquence—The lesson they should learn isliberty.
And yet I would that they were free as I;
It angers me that women are so weak,
Looking askance when ere they pass me by
Lest on a chance their lords should see us speak;
And coming next day to an audience
In hope of learning to resemble me:
They wish, they tell me, to learn eloquence—
The lesson they should learn isliberty.
O Athens, city of the beautiful,Home of all art, all elegance, all grace;Whose orators and poets sway the soulAs the winds move the sea's unstable face;O wonderous city, nurse and home of mind,This is my oracle to you this day—No generous growth from starved roots will you find,But fruitless blossoms weakening to decay.
O Athens, city of the beautiful,
Home of all art, all elegance, all grace;
Whose orators and poets sway the soul
As the winds move the sea's unstable face;
O wonderous city, nurse and home of mind,
This is my oracle to you this day—
No generous growth from starved roots will you find,
But fruitless blossoms weakening to decay.
You take my meaning? Sappho is no more,And no more Sapphos will be, in your time;The tree is dead on one side that beforeRan with such burning sap of love and rhyme.Your glorious city is the utmost flowerOf a one-sided culture, that will spendItself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour,It runs its sources dry, and so must end.
You take my meaning? Sappho is no more,
And no more Sapphos will be, in your time;
The tree is dead on one side that before
Ran with such burning sap of love and rhyme.
Your glorious city is the utmost flower
Of a one-sided culture, that will spend
Itself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour,
It runs its sources dry, and so must end.
That race is doomed, behind whose latticesIts once free women are constrained to peerUpon the world of men with vacant eyes;It was not so in Homer's time, I hear.But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store,Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves;They're built into your walls, beside your door,And bend beneath your lofty architraves.
That race is doomed, behind whose lattices
Its once free women are constrained to peer
Upon the world of men with vacant eyes;
It was not so in Homer's time, I hear.
But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store,
Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves;
They're built into your walls, beside your door,
And bend beneath your lofty architraves.
A woman of the race that looks uponThe sculptured emblems of captivity,Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son;And none shall know the worth of liberty.Am I seditious?—Nay, then, I will keepMy lesson for your dames when next they stealOn tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleepSecurely, and dream well: we wish your weal!
A woman of the race that looks upon
The sculptured emblems of captivity,
Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son;
And none shall know the worth of liberty.
Am I seditious?—Nay, then, I will keep
My lesson for your dames when next they steal
On tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleep
Securely, and dream well: we wish your weal!
Why, what vain prattle: but my heart is soreWith thinking on the emptiness of things,And these Athenians, treacherous to the core,Who hung on Pericles with flatterings.I would indeed I were a little child,Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sandsIn far Miletus, where the airs blow mild,And countless looms throb under busy hands.
Why, what vain prattle: but my heart is sore
With thinking on the emptiness of things,
And these Athenians, treacherous to the core,
Who hung on Pericles with flatterings.
I would indeed I were a little child,
Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sands
In far Miletus, where the airs blow mild,
And countless looms throb under busy hands.
The busy hand must calm the busy thought,And labor cool the passions of the hour;To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought,What signifies the party last in power?But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophersWho reason on the nature of the soul;And all the vain array of orators,Who strove to hold the people in control.
The busy hand must calm the busy thought,
And labor cool the passions of the hour;
To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought,
What signifies the party last in power?
But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophers
Who reason on the nature of the soul;
And all the vain array of orators,
Who strove to hold the people in control.
Between the poets, artists, critics, all,Who form a faction or who found a school,We weave Penelope's web with hearts of gall,And my poor brain is oft the weary tool.Yet do I choose this life. What is to mePeace or good fame, away from all of these,But living death? I do choose liberty,And leave to Athens' dames their soulless ease.
Between the poets, artists, critics, all,
Who form a faction or who found a school,
We weave Penelope's web with hearts of gall,
And my poor brain is oft the weary tool.
Yet do I choose this life. What is to me
Peace or good fame, away from all of these,
But living death? I do choose liberty,
And leave to Athens' dames their soulless ease.
The time shall come, when Athens is no more,And you and all your gods have passed away;That other men, upon another shore,Shall from your errors learn a better way.To them eternal justice will revealEternal truth, and in its better lightAll that your legal falsehoods now conceal,Will stand forth clearly in the whole world's sight.
The time shall come, when Athens is no more,
And you and all your gods have passed away;
That other men, upon another shore,
Shall from your errors learn a better way.
To them eternal justice will reveal
Eternal truth, and in its better light
All that your legal falsehoods now conceal,
Will stand forth clearly in the whole world's sight.
A REPRIMAND.