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30
SUUM CUIQUE
What shall we do with thee, thou child of disgrace and disaster—Innocent heir of crime, victim of other men's sins?
Shall we abandon thee quite, and leave thee forlorn and neglected,
Bearing throughout thy days burdens of sorrow and shame?
He, thy detestable sire, is dead; we cannot recall him,
Cannot inflict on him that which he doubly deserved;
Doubly—for was he not foul, the wretch who dared to beget thee.
Being a devil himself, spawn of the nethermost hell?
Ah, but he was not all, nor half, the root of thy being:—
Thou hadst a mother too, feminine, human, and fair;
Gentle in all her ways, and pure as a sister of angels;
She has her part in thee—Nay, thou art utterly hers.
For the true soul of a man belongs of right to his mother;
Born, like his body, in her, usher'd by her into life:
Bred by her culture and care through the fruitfullest years of his boyhood
Left to the father at last, only to make him a man.
How could he make thee a man, himself a demon incarnate?
No, thou hast nothing of him; thou art thy mother's alone:
Thou art thy mother's son, the seed of a virtuous woman:
That is thy claim to respect; that is thy title to love.
Therefore, take courage; arise, and live to replenish thy manhood
Only with aims like hers, lofty and noble and wise:
So shalt thou never be soil'd by the trail of an infamous father:
So shall thy fame be thine own, worthy of her and of thee.
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