 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
HYPATIA
'T is fifteen hundred years, you say,
Since that fair teacher died
In learnèd Alexandria
By the stone altar's side:—
The wild monks slew her, as she lay
At the feet of the Crucified.
Since that fair teacher died
420
By the stone altar's side:—
The wild monks slew her, as she lay
At the feet of the Crucified.
Yet in a prairie-town, one night,
I found her lecture-hall,
Where bench and dais stood aright,
And statues graced the wall,
And pendent brazen lamps the light
Of classic days let fall.
I found her lecture-hall,
Where bench and dais stood aright,
And statues graced the wall,
And pendent brazen lamps the light
Of classic days let fall.
A throng that watched the speaker's face,
And on her accents hung,
Was gathered there: the strength, the grace
Of lands where life is young
Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race
From old Pelasgia sprung.
And on her accents hung,
Was gathered there: the strength, the grace
Of lands where life is young
Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race
From old Pelasgia sprung.
No civic crown the sibyl wore,
Nor academic tire,
But shining skirts, that trailed the floor
And made her stature higher;
A written scroll the lecturn bore,
And flowers bloomed anigh her.
Nor academic tire,
But shining skirts, that trailed the floor
And made her stature higher;
A written scroll the lecturn bore,
And flowers bloomed anigh her.
The wealth her honeyed speech had won
Adorned her in our sight;
The silkworm for her sake had spun
His cincture, day and night;
With broider-work and Honiton
Her open sleeves were bright.
Adorned her in our sight;
The silkworm for her sake had spun
His cincture, day and night;
With broider-work and Honiton
Her open sleeves were bright.
But still Hypatia's self I knew,
And saw, with dreamy wonder,
The form of her whom Cyril slew
(See Kingsley's novel, yonder)
Some fifteen centuries since, 't is true,
And half a world asunder.
And saw, with dreamy wonder,
The form of her whom Cyril slew
(See Kingsley's novel, yonder)
421
And half a world asunder.
Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise,
With one loose tress down-flowing;
Apollo's rapture lit her eyes,
His utterance bestowing,—
A silver flute's clear harmonies
On which a god was blowing.
With one loose tress down-flowing;
Apollo's rapture lit her eyes,
His utterance bestowing,—
A silver flute's clear harmonies
On which a god was blowing.
Yet not of Plato's sounding spheres,
And universal Pan,
She spoke; but searched historic years,
The sisterhood to scan
Of women,—girt with ills and fears,—
Slaves to the tyrant, Man.
And universal Pan,
She spoke; but searched historic years,
The sisterhood to scan
Of women,—girt with ills and fears,—
Slaves to the tyrant, Man.
Their crosiered banner she unfurled,
And onward pushed her quest
Through golden ages of a world
By their deliverance blest:—
At all who stay their hands she hurled
Defiance from her breast.
And onward pushed her quest
Through golden ages of a world
By their deliverance blest:—
At all who stay their hands she hurled
Defiance from her breast.
I saw her burning words infuse
A warmth through many a heart,
As still, in bright successive views,
She drew her sex's part;
Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse,
Of work, and song, and art.
A warmth through many a heart,
As still, in bright successive views,
She drew her sex's part;
Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse,
Of work, and song, and art.
Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say
The later is the less?
Our Sappho sang but yesterday,
Of whom two climes confess
Heaven's flame within her wore away
Her earthly loveliness.
The later is the less?
Our Sappho sang but yesterday,
Of whom two climes confess
Heaven's flame within her wore away
Her earthly loveliness.
422
So let thy wild heart ripple on,
Brave girl, through vale and city!
Spare, of its listless moments, one
To this, thy poet's ditty;
Nor long forbear, when all is done,
Thine own sweet self to pity.
Brave girl, through vale and city!
Spare, of its listless moments, one
To this, thy poet's ditty;
Nor long forbear, when all is done,
Thine own sweet self to pity.
The priestess of the Sestian tower,
Whose knight the sea swam over,
Among her votaries' gifts no flower
Of heart's-ease could discover:
She died, but in no evil hour,
Who, dying, clasped her lover.
Whose knight the sea swam over,
Among her votaries' gifts no flower
Of heart's-ease could discover:
She died, but in no evil hour,
Who, dying, clasped her lover.
The rose-tree has its perfect life
When the full rose is blown;
Some height of womanhood the wife
Beyond thy dream has known;
Set not thy head and heart at strife
To keep thee from thine own.
When the full rose is blown;
Some height of womanhood the wife
Beyond thy dream has known;
Set not thy head and heart at strife
To keep thee from thine own.
Hypatia! thine essence rare
The rarer joy should merit:
Possess thee of that common share
Which lesser souls inherit:
All gods to thee their garlands bear,—
Take one from Love and wear it!
The rarer joy should merit:
Possess thee of that common share
Which lesser souls inherit:
All gods to thee their garlands bear,—
Take one from Love and wear it!
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |