Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

O, ye who make so much ado
About what never troubled you!
Do ye believe the Bible true—
The rule of life?
Then take a reasonable view
Of this your “strife.”

This is an age of wondrous things;
Since Folly has the leading strings,
Discretion, spurned, her treasure flings
To the four winds;
While here and there a wise one clings
To what he finds.

But this surprises me the most:
To hear deluded people boast
They still possess what they have lost,
Or never had;
It certainly would seem a host
Of them were mad.

Some rave about the public weal;
And some in strange devotion kneel;

While wisely others think they feel
For human woes,
But gash the wound they strive to heal—
What else, de'il knows!

The zealot here, by frenzy driven,
Proclaims that to himself is given
To point a better road to heaven,
And far more near
Than that in which poor souls have striven
For many a year.

The pious son now leaves the road
In which his sainted father trode
And to his erring infant showed,
As too uneven;
For he has found a wiser mode
Of reaching heaven.

And here the politician stands
Upon a stage “not made with hands,”
And tells the rabble his commands;
The gazing throng
Deem him the savior of their lands,
And never wrong.

But there 's a wonder far more great,
Which I must venture to narrate;
Should woman in affairs of state
Put forth a hand?
Yet even so it is of late
In this our land.

Exceptions always I permit;
So now I readily acquit

A portion of this ruling fit—
To such all grace!
They stay at home to spin and knit—
Their better place.

But yonder super-brilliant mind
Is not thus cruelly confined
To slavish drudgery unkind;
How hard her fate,
That man alone, so weak and blind,
Should legislate!

That he the sacred desk should fill,
And only curb the froward will!
He only wield the potent quill
To write the law,
While she, poor soul, must lack the will
To pick a flaw!

This present season of the age
Societies are all the rage;
And then behold the scribbled page—
A long petition!
The ladies think they must engage
In abolition.

Alas, what bitter sighs they draw
For miseries they never saw!
Their cheeks with frequent weeping raw,
More tears to save;
But render worse the evil law
That holds the slave.

Mistaken souls, refrain from sighs,
And wipe the tear-drops from your eyes!
Wait till the negro on you cries
For all this aid;

Until that time 't were far more wise
Were it delayed.

And thus the matter seems to me:
For you to fret at slavery
Is meddling in the first degree;
So pray forbear,
And let the holy proverb be
Your constant care.

Ladies, you have my best respects!
But, meddlers, of whatever sex
Let me beseech you do not vex
On my account;
It dries the social spring, and checks
The very fount!

The “stump orator.”