 | Miami Woods : a golden wedding and other poems |  |
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Woman.
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A COPY OF “LUCILE,” PRESENTED BY A FRIEND.
I.
In the highways of Life, here and there, now and then,Amid muslin call'd ladies, and buckram call'd men,
One meets, though the race is now hardly styled human,
A man that 's a man, and a woman that 's woman.
Such scorn not to drink of the waters of truth,
That flow, pure and cool, from the fountains of youth;
Nor reject, for roast beef and plum-pudding, the meal
Fitly season'd and served by the hand of Lucile.
II.
Lucile! oh thou sweetest of self-immolatorsThat e'er walk'd the walks of the world in French gaiters;
Thou purest of Sisters, and bravest of Nuns,
Thou should'st have borne daughters—thou should'st have left sons:
But failing of these—perhaps Life's lesser part—
Thou still hast left offspring that sprang from thy heart,
Having just enough falsehood truth's force to reveal,
And just enough art art's device to conceal.
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III.
It is true—is it not?—that the beings we knowAs the beings of mind, are the beings that flow
From nearer the sources of trial and truth,
From nearer the fountains of freshness and youth,
Than the beings of muslin and buckram we meet
In the gilded saloon, or the church, or the street.
The alembic of Genius from which they proceed,—
From the sickness and sin of humanity freed,
From the gloss of its crime, and the grime of its error,
From its frenzy, it fume, its despair, and its terror,—
Gives existence to purer and loftier lives
Than are borne to most husbands by most of their wives.
IV.
Then hail to Lucile! contemplate her! look at her!And hail to the power that conceived her—begat her—
Took her out from fair Paris—from Baden—anon
Built her chalet far up the slopes of Serchon—
Fill'd her sweet eyes with flow'rs and her pure heart with chimes
From the bird and the brook, and the bee and the limes—
Bade the thunders to speak, and the cataracts roll
Their grand diapason through the depths of her soul—
Gave a voice to the pinnacled solitudes there,
That was just less than worship, and just more than prayer—
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Clothed the passion of Love with the fashion of Truth—
In the man of the world found and unmask'd the true man,
Through the mind and the might of the self-sustain'd woman—
Set a spirit afloat on the wave, on the breeze,
And a living soul gave to the lone Pyrenees.
V.
Ah, Lucile—Alfred Vargrave—Eugene de Luvois—If well “put on the stage,” what “large houses” you'd draw!
But as given to the page of Life's prophet, the Poet,
You draw better still, and the “trade sales” all show it.
From which I conclude,—as I'm certain I may,—
That the world has still some men and women who pay
Willing tribute to all that ennobles the race,
And due homage to woman whene'er she displays
The uplifting emotions, the purposes high,
The unchanging resolve or to do or to die
For the truth of the tongue, and the faith of the heart,
Which we feel were Lucile's—which Lucile could impart.
VI.
“Woman's strength is her weakness,” men often declare:Just as much—and no more—Samson's strength was his hair.
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For man as her Lord. Not as something that's higher,
But stronger; as something to which she was sent,
To be bone of his bone, and, in full complement,
To be flesh of his flesh. The old Edenal story,
In making which true is her pride—is her glory;
For making which true she has longings. Her life,
Left at least incomplete without being a wife,
And a mother, looks lovingly forward to these
High and holy accomplishments, just as the trees
And the vines that bear fruit, forward look for the wall
Which the latter must lean on and cling to, and all
The soft rains and warm winds and bright sunshines that bring
In their train the full beauty that 's born of the spring;
With the bud and the bloom of the former, that shoot,
And fructify soon, and accomplish the fruit.
VII.
Woman's strength is, her virtue—her will—her desire:Man's weakness is, not to be influenced by her
High hopes, patient waitings, long labors for good
For herself and for all, half as much as he should.
Look at Alfred Vargrave—at Eugene de Luvois!
How keenly she felt, and how clearly she saw,
—She, the woman Lucile—while perhaps all were sinning,
All three, against fortune or fate, the beginning
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Of love and of hope—irremovable checks
To all present designs, or desires—every-where,
In its course, folly, frenzy, defeat and despair.
She, the woman Lucile, saw it soon—saw it all—
Knew the lightning would flash, and the thunder-bolt fall—
Felt the shallows—the reef—heard the roar—saw the rock—
Gave warning again and again: but the shock
Came the same; and the dark and the desolate shore,
And the paths that led to it, and the water that bore
For a time the frail barges of love and of hope,
That so recklessly sail'd up the hyaline cope,
Were strewn with the wrecks she had dreaded, foreknown,
And foreseen, and foretold of. All light was her own,
All prudence, all warning, all wisdom, all kindness:
But against her were passion—fatuity—blindness—
That knew not, that saw not, that heard not, that reck'd not!
And who, like to them, just such fate may expect not?
VIII.
Woman's strength is her virtue—her will—her desire—That exalt her, sustain her, forbid her to tire.
The priestess of Nature, interpreting God,
She is like much that Nature spreads grandly abroad.
Yet she 's not the strong river that flows to the sea;
Nor the wild waste of waves that engulph it, is she;
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Having faith it will not be permitted to fall—
Neither it nor its fruit. She's the angel that brings
Down the jewels of heav'n to the crowns of earth's Kings.
Though unheeded so oft, she 's the voice that to man
Speaks as not e'en the voice of an archangel can.
IX.
Woman's strength is her virtue—her will—her desireFor a love that is purer—a life that is higher—
A truth that is surer—a faith that is stronger—
A hope that is brighter—a charity longer,
And broader, and deeper, and oh! much benigner:
With an impulse that ever incites her to twine her
White arms and sweet purposes round what is pure,
And serene, and unselfish, and sinless and sure.
What the rose to the garden, the leaf to the tree,
And the grass to the plains, to man's mansion is she.
Like the sun to the earth—like the stars to the skies—
She 's the warmth of his love, and the light of his eyes.
But she 's more than all this: she 's companion, friend, wife—
Without whom man might live,
But—would living be Life?
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