 | The Baroness of New York |  |
VIII.
The gay Mephistophiles still at his side,
Now crooking his thumb over shoulder, he cried;
“And this, Sir Francis, is the kettle drum!
Where brave Sitting Bull would be shamed at the din.
Where tall, childless women in multitudes come,
Who would charm with the cheek, but alarm with the chin.”
Now crooking his thumb over shoulder, he cried;
“And this, Sir Francis, is the kettle drum!
Where brave Sitting Bull would be shamed at the din.
Where tall, childless women in multitudes come,
Who would charm with the cheek, but alarm with the chin.”
And then with his hand to his face, and aside,
He whispered shrill—yet we know he lied.
“These ladies are blesséd as angels be,
They spend their days in driving about
Seeking some suitable object out
To receive their meddlesome charity.
He whispered shrill—yet we know he lied.
“These ladies are blesséd as angels be,
They spend their days in driving about
Seeking some suitable object out
To receive their meddlesome charity.
136
“They find some poor, broken horse at a dray.
They gather around in their carriages. They
Are thick and as noisy as crows. Ah, me!
How noble,—and noisy, sweet charity!
They weep o'er the horse; the man they arrest...
A poor wife starves with a babe at her breast.
They gather around in their carriages. They
Are thick and as noisy as crows. Ah, me!
How noble,—and noisy, sweet charity!
They weep o'er the horse; the man they arrest...
A poor wife starves with a babe at her breast.
“And how they do work! that is, with the tongue;
And alone with the tongue. All work, somehow—
Why, even the bearing and rearing of young
They leave to the Dutch and the Irish now.
This city is paved with dead infants!” he cried.
Goodness gracious! don't you think he lied?
And alone with the tongue. All work, somehow—
Why, even the bearing and rearing of young
They leave to the Dutch and the Irish now.
This city is paved with dead infants!” he cried.
Goodness gracious! don't you think he lied?
“O, give me good mothers. Yea, great, glad mothers.
Proud mothers of dozens, indeed, twice ten;
Fond mothers of daughters and mothers of men,
With old time clusters of sisters and brothers,
When grand Greeks lived like to gods, and when
Brave mothers of men, strong-breasted and broad,
Did exult in fulfilling the purpose of God.
Proud mothers of dozens, indeed, twice ten;
Fond mothers of daughters and mothers of men,
With old time clusters of sisters and brothers,
When grand Greeks lived like to gods, and when
Brave mothers of men, strong-breasted and broad,
Did exult in fulfilling the purpose of God.
“Yea, give me mothers, grand, old-world mothers,
Who peopled strong, lusty, loved Germany,
Till she pushed the Frank from the Rhine to the sea.
Yea, give me mothers to love, and none others;
Blessed, beautified mothers of men for me,
For they, they have loved in the brave old way,
And for this, all honor for aye and a day.
Who peopled strong, lusty, loved Germany,
Till she pushed the Frank from the Rhine to the sea.
137
Blessed, beautified mothers of men for me,
For they, they have loved in the brave old way,
And for this, all honor for aye and a day.
“O ye of the West, the strong-limbed mothers,
Made firmest of foot and most mighty of hand;
Dominion is yours, through the whole, wide land,
To the end of the world. For who but your brothers,
And men of your breasts with the brave warrior's brand
Led down to the sea? Who hewed a red way?
Yea, who are the captains that lead us to-day?
Made firmest of foot and most mighty of hand;
Dominion is yours, through the whole, wide land,
To the end of the world. For who but your brothers,
And men of your breasts with the brave warrior's brand
Led down to the sea? Who hewed a red way?
Yea, who are the captains that lead us to-day?
“Ye Cyprians of fashion, ye whited, cursed mothers!
Yea, cursed as the Christ cursed the barren fig tree,
With your one sickly branch where a dozen should be;
It were better ye bide as the Capuchin brothers,
Or, millstone at neck, ye be thrown in the sea.
Ye are dried up peppers in a dried up pod.
Ye are hated of men, and abhorred of God!”
Yea, cursed as the Christ cursed the barren fig tree,
With your one sickly branch where a dozen should be;
It were better ye bide as the Capuchin brothers,
Or, millstone at neck, ye be thrown in the sea.
Ye are dried up peppers in a dried up pod.
Ye are hated of men, and abhorred of God!”
| The Baroness of New York | |