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60
THE MESSENGER
“I am his servant, and he sent me here”:Such was her answer, spoken prompt and clear,
To those who ask'd her whence and why she came.
And, as she thought of his beloved name,
She felt in every pulse and every limb
The lasting joy of being own'd by him,
And not by any other. “You can see,”
She softly added, “if you look at me,
That I am his; deny it if you dare!”
She raised her blushing countenance, and there
They saw the letters that she loved so well,
Imprinted, obvious and indelible.
“Now, will you not think well of me?” she said:
And redder than her blushes, grew the red
Of that strange legend, which she could not hide.
To her meek soul, it was a source of pride,
And not of shame, that she should thus be known
By all who scann'd her features, as his own:
His property, his chattel, and no more.
She thought herself ennobled, that she bore
Her Master's name upon her comely face;
An arrogant disfigurement—a base
Bold record of his ownership of her.
To her, it was the sole interpreter
Of what she felt; not hope, not happiness,
But something which she freely could express
61
Her Master, far above her and apart,
Knew nothing of her service; she was paid;
She work'd for hire, like any other maid;
And none of those who saw her every day
Knew why she was so eager to obey,
So steadfast in her duty. She alone
Knew that the name which she had made her own
By wearing it thus openly for life,
Had given her the feelings of a wife
For such an one to whom her low estate
Made her a servant only, not a mate.
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