Susan A poem of degrees. By the author of "Dorothy: a country story in elegiac verse," "Vulgar verses," etc. [i.e. A. J. Munby] |
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 | Susan |  |
We talk'd together, Arundel and I,
Of women's characters: the mystery
Of some strange lives; how noble yet how base,
How foul in heart and yet how fair of face
The selfsame woman may be; and again,
How often women, resolutely plain
Or ugly, the mere refuse of their kind
In outward aspect, have to the just mind
A beauty fairer than the passing guise
Of rosy lips and soft enchanting eyes.
Also, in classes lower than our own,
How many a working woman we had known,
How many a wench robust and rough with toil,
Whose harden'd fingers would but wound and soil
Your tender palms, Lord Fanny or Sir Plume,
And yet, to whom the mattock and the broom,
The sweat of labour, the mere black result
Of drudgery, become a kind of cult
That leaves these muscular maidens nobler far
Than the most feminine of ladies are.
On them we dwelt, these creatures masculine:
Rough servant girls, whom nothing can refine;
The black and rugged wenches of the mine;
The sunburnt damsels of the field or farm;
All, who by force of bulk and strength of arm
Can keep a bad man's insolence at bay,
And make him feel that they, and such as they,
Can hold their own unaided. Some, indeed,
Grave lusty lasses of laborious breed,
Have all their energies inform'd by love:
They spend their strength in serving one above
(Too far above) themselves. Such a mute maid,
Whose low condition nothing can degrade
Save vice, will use each large and sinewy limb
Of her coarse frame, in drudgery for him
Who owns her heart, and whose adored commands
Direct the efforts of her horny hands.
She makes herself his slave; not that he wills
She should do thus; but that her passion fills
The only channel it can hope to find.
She cannot help him with the equal mind
Of educated woman; but by this,
Her own rude work, she can be wholly his:
Her own rude labour will suffice to show
The strenuous love that makes her labour so;
And by its very baseness may express
Her deep devotion, and her happiness
In having such a sweetheart for her own.
Of women's characters: the mystery
Of some strange lives; how noble yet how base,
How foul in heart and yet how fair of face
The selfsame woman may be; and again,
How often women, resolutely plain
Or ugly, the mere refuse of their kind
In outward aspect, have to the just mind
A beauty fairer than the passing guise
Of rosy lips and soft enchanting eyes.
Also, in classes lower than our own,
How many a working woman we had known,
How many a wench robust and rough with toil,
Whose harden'd fingers would but wound and soil
Your tender palms, Lord Fanny or Sir Plume,
And yet, to whom the mattock and the broom,
The sweat of labour, the mere black result
Of drudgery, become a kind of cult
That leaves these muscular maidens nobler far
Than the most feminine of ladies are.
8
Rough servant girls, whom nothing can refine;
The black and rugged wenches of the mine;
The sunburnt damsels of the field or farm;
All, who by force of bulk and strength of arm
Can keep a bad man's insolence at bay,
And make him feel that they, and such as they,
Can hold their own unaided. Some, indeed,
Grave lusty lasses of laborious breed,
Have all their energies inform'd by love:
They spend their strength in serving one above
(Too far above) themselves. Such a mute maid,
Whose low condition nothing can degrade
Save vice, will use each large and sinewy limb
Of her coarse frame, in drudgery for him
Who owns her heart, and whose adored commands
Direct the efforts of her horny hands.
She makes herself his slave; not that he wills
She should do thus; but that her passion fills
The only channel it can hope to find.
She cannot help him with the equal mind
Of educated woman; but by this,
Her own rude work, she can be wholly his:
Her own rude labour will suffice to show
The strenuous love that makes her labour so;
And by its very baseness may express
Her deep devotion, and her happiness
In having such a sweetheart for her own.
| Susan | |