 | Collected poems |  |
113
THE MISOGYNIST
“Il était un jeune homme d'un bien beau passé.”
When first he sought our haunts, he wore
His locks in Hamlet-style;
His brow with thought was “sicklied o'er,”—
We rarely saw him smile;
And, e'en when none was looking on,
His air was always woe-begone.
His locks in Hamlet-style;
His brow with thought was “sicklied o'er,”—
We rarely saw him smile;
And, e'en when none was looking on,
His air was always woe-begone.
He kept, I think, his bosom bare
To imitate Jean Paul;
His solitary topics were
Æsthetics, Fate, and Soul;—
Although at times, but not for long,
He bowed his Intellect to song.
To imitate Jean Paul;
His solitary topics were
Æsthetics, Fate, and Soul;—
Although at times, but not for long,
He bowed his Intellect to song.
He served, he said, a Muse of Tears:
I know his verses breathed
A fine funereal air of biers,
And objects cypress-wreathed;—
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled
An ode he named “The Sheeted Dead.’
I know his verses breathed
A fine funereal air of biers,
And objects cypress-wreathed;—
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled
An ode he named “The Sheeted Dead.’
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In these light moods, I call to mind,
He darkly would allude
To some dread sorrow undefined,—
Some passion unsubdued;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.
He darkly would allude
To some dread sorrow undefined,—
Some passion unsubdued;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.
He railed at women's faith as Cant;
We thought him grandest when
He named them Siren-shapes that “chant
On blanching bones of Men”;—
Alas, not e'en the great go free
From that insidious minstrelsy!
We thought him grandest when
He named them Siren-shapes that “chant
On blanching bones of Men”;—
Alas, not e'en the great go free
From that insidious minstrelsy!
His lot, he oft would gravely urge,
Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge
The Billows of Despair.
We dreamed it true. We never knew
What gentler ears he told it to.
Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge
The Billows of Despair.
We dreamed it true. We never knew
What gentler ears he told it to.
We, bound with him in common care,
One-minded, celibate,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
Our lives to dedicate;—
We, truly, in no common sense,
Deserved his closest confidence!
One-minded, celibate,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
Our lives to dedicate;—
We, truly, in no common sense,
Deserved his closest confidence!
But soon, and yet, though soon, too late,
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
A gradual softness enervate
That all superior mind,
Until,—in full assembly met,
He dared to speak of Etiquette.
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
A gradual softness enervate
That all superior mind,
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He dared to speak of Etiquette.
The verse that we severe had known,
Assumed a wanton air,—
A fond effeminate monotone
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Not ηθος stirred him now or νους,
He read “The Angel in the House”!
Assumed a wanton air,—
A fond effeminate monotone
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Not ηθος stirred him now or νους,
He read “The Angel in the House”!
Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff,
Grew ludicrously sore
If we but named a photograph
We found him simpering o'er;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.
Grew ludicrously sore
If we but named a photograph
We found him simpering o'er;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.
Then worse again. He tried to dress;
He trimmed his tragic mane;
Announced at length (to our distress)
He had not “lived in vain”;—
Thenceforth his one prevailing mood
Became a base beatitude.
He trimmed his tragic mane;
Announced at length (to our distress)
He had not “lived in vain”;—
Thenceforth his one prevailing mood
Became a base beatitude.
And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul!
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
“All wool,” enwound about;
His very hat had changed its brim;—
Our course was clear,—we banished him!
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
“All wool,” enwound about;
His very hat had changed its brim;—
Our course was clear,—we banished him!
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