University of Virginia Library

At still Night's solitary watch,
Half of mankind sunk in debauch,
While with their gold starv'd misers share
The wakeful agony of care,
And screech-owls, with ill-boding pow'rs,
Hoot through lone walls and haunted tow'rs;
At yonder desk see Lauria sit,
Fond to be styl'd a sister-wit
Her pen and standish wait hard by,
The snowy sheets before her lie,
The snowy sheets (what have they done?)
Soon with foul blots to be o'er-run.
How soft she looks in midnight-gown,
Sweeping all negligently down,
The sleeves (quake, insects, for your sins)
In much disorder stuff'd with pins!
Below her chin a nightcap ties,
To shade her features in disguise,
Left she might ever tempted be,
In glass her naked face to see;
For sure we vanity rank in
The meanest acts of venial sin.
A riband, garter-like, around
Keeps her full head-dress fitly bound;
Yet, in despite of all her care,
Oft peeps out rudely straggling hair.
To veil her downy swan-white neck,
The daring footman's gaze to check,
An handkerchief she wraps about,
Of dainty russet, plain and stout:
Tuck'd in the foldings of her gown,
The cross-laid ends hang dangling down.
That nought may incommode the muse,
She slides along in undress-shoes.
Slippers we mean; for always kind,
She hates her guiltless feet to bind,
Learn, ye fastidious virgins, hence,
To save each useless vain expense.
How humble Lauria, and how meek,
Though youth still triumphs in her cheek!
Rather than needless trouble give,
She greatly deigns—in dirt to live.

Thus, dress'd in Nature's simple prime,
(Conceit was Lucifer's first crime)
In sweet Humility's plain suit,
Artless, but elegant to boot;
Lauria, in happy mood to think,
Ventures straightway on pen and ink.
Beware, ye bards of low degree,
Her satire points at you and—me.
Lauria is yet a maid; how then
Can she refrain her virgin pen?
Were she arriv'd at full five score,
We might indeed our fears give o'er.
But if not wedlock-join'd till then,
Have mercy on the sons of men!
Lauria unwed, can she refuse
To raise up children to the Muse?
For lo! to thwart eternal fate,
Two females here can procreate;
Furnish'd with that fell thing, a pen,
Scorn the virility of men.
Still more, our wonder forth to draw,
Conceive and bear unwed by law.
Nor marvel, Lauria still should prove
Almost unmatch'd in tender love.
Her infants seem, one with another,
All striking transcripts of the mother.
But, to the offspring of her brain,
Begot and born with so much pain,
Since Lauria shows such constant care,
Shows all the softness of the fair;
A prejudice that stands excus'd,
To near and dear connections us'd;
Who would wish Lauria, sane in mind,
A parent of another kind?
Who would not husbands too refuse,
For their espousals with the Muse?
All, she excepted, from mere spite,
Who ev'ry thing can do but—write.

Her needle, no false taste to show,
Lauria abandon'd long ago.
And sure her fame this to disperse is,
Her needle ah! can write no verses.
A needle, made of ruthless steel,
Women must hate, while women feel.
It puts one cruelly in mind,
Of murders acted on mankind;
Dreadful, in the same conscious breath,
Alarms with blood, and wounds, and death.
What chillness too it thought brings dire on,
Dozing for ever o'er cold iron!
With quills be female battles fought,
But, brandish steel!—tremendous thought!

“Amid the languid calm of life,
“Hoping one day to be a wife,
“Who, with a soul born to aspire,
“Those cares and duties can admire,
“Though ne'er her temper out of joint,
“Plac'd on a sorry needle's point?
“The task of sewing seems design'd
“For females of the lower kind,
“Of knowledge thus far unbereft,
“To know their right hand from their left;
“Dowdies, that never yet could hit
“On one bright sally of true wit;
“Give a smooth harmonious turn,
“Or with poetic fervour burn;
“But born eternally to pore,
“And do the same thing o'er and o'er;
“Nor feel, so lifeless the employ,
“One soft thrill of tumultuous joy.
“Who, as a housewife, can pretend
“Her name through distant climes to send?
“Macaulay's palm historic claim,
“Or rise to Sappho's height of fame?
“Give me but paper, pen, and ink,
“And leisure undisturb'd to think;
“Think on a selfish, tasteless age,
“And vent my bitterness and rage;
“To show (what transport it implies!)
“That creature, man, I can despise;
“Give Lauria these, to others then,
“She leaves the task of—nursing men,
“To dull domesticated wives,
“Content with mere existing lives;
“Content to plod on with their spouses,
“And live on frowns within their houses;
“In little, silly, whining chat,
“To praise and censure this, and that;
“Still, still the burden of the song,
“Indeed, my dear, you're in the wrong.

Thus Lauria would do all she can
To pour a great revenge on men.
See yon emasculated race,
In each the female you may trace,
So soft, so delicate, so nice,
So mortally afraid of—mice.
If but the winds presume to blow,
They dull and melancholy grow,
Lest on their gentle organs cold
Should through some fatal chink take hold.
If reptiles innocently crawl,
Or from the roof a spider fall;
“Good Heav'n! the death-cold faint's come on!
“The bottle! for my master's gone!”
If thus the masculines in sex
Females become, nor Nature tax;
If thus, with unambitious mind,
Infringe the rights of women-kind;
Lauria's resolv'd revenge to take,
And just the like encroachments make.
To see a thousand victims die,
She scorns on beauty to rely.
Lauria affects much to despise
The fire-wing'd arrows of the eyes.
Far other weapons would she chuse,
Prepar'd and sharpen'd by the Muse.
Those of her coward sex she scorns,
Like insects butting with their horns;
But boldly wrests from lordly men
That mighty weapon call'd a pen.
Turn'd on ourseves, can we pretend
E'er to escape our latter end?
No; fall we must, or Heav'n displease,
That is, by nature, or disease.

Hail, Lauria! how sublime thy praise!
Thou heroine of modern days!
Arm'd with a quiver from Parnassus,
The terrour of faint-hearted lasses,
Who thy fierce onset can withstand,
Or shun fate darted from thy hand?
What sevenfold shield protection throw
O'er mortals to avert the blow?
Yes; Prudence interdicts delay,
Gird up your loins and—run away.
How else escape, with lucky star,
A female thunderbolt of war?
You live secure from Lauria's charms,
Not Lauria terrible in arms.

How happy Lauria's thus employ'd,
And with the task too overjoy'd?
Else had she wasted endless sighs,
Now the shrin'd Muse's sacrifice,
Of her choice china ware bereft,
Nought but the broken fragments left,
Thrown in a tempest on the floor,
—For Tom forgot to shut the door.
Her little lap-dog else had been
The guiltless object of her spleen,
Poor Cloe, whom, with fond delight,
She in her bosom hugs all night.
And why? no bedfellow she boasts,
And ah! she trembles much for ghosts.
Her bulfinch too had lost his eyes,
Though happier far the finch that dies,
Pierc'd by the execrable wire,
Heated remorseless in the fire.
Hard fate! his anguish to prolong,
And beauty spoil, to mend his song!
Sweet bird! that, ravish'd of his sight,
His dirge had warbled day and night!
But let thy notes in triumph rise,
The Muse redeem'd thy pretty eyes;
All Lauria's passions deep engag'd,
That else far otherwise had rag'd;
Allow'd no active thought to be
Unoccupied, to torture thee.

Such ills domestic had arose,
Had Lauria deign'd not to compose;
Had she, in disrespect of men,
Preferr'd her needle to her pen.
Thanks to that dignity of thought,
Vainly with simple housewives sought;
That elegance of taste refin'd,
That delicately-feeling mind;
Which scorn, with much becoming strife,
The female drudgery of life.