« PoprzedniaDalej »
And what she did to Cyrus after fight,
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read:
‘You have known, O brother, all the pangs we felt, What heats of moral anger when we heard Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's feet; Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge; Of living hearts that crack within the fire Where smoulder their dead despots; and of those, – Mothers, – that, all prophetic pity, fling Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart
Made for all noble motion: and I saw
That it was little better in better times
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood
You draw from, fight; we abide what end soe'er,
Of Freedom broadcast over all that orbs
Between the Northern and the Southern morn.'
Then came a postscript dash'd across the rest. ‘See that there be no traitors in your camp : We seem a nest of traitors—none to trust Since our arms fail’d—this Egypt-plague of men' Almost our maids were better at their homes, Than thus man-girdled here: indeed we think Our chiefest comfort is the little child Of one unworthy mother; which she left: She shall not have it back: the child shall grow To prize the authentic mother of her mind. We took it for an hour this morning to us, In our own bed: the tender orphan hands Felt at our heart, and seem'd to charm from thence
The wrath we nursed against the world; farewell.'
I ceased; he said: ‘Stubborn, but she may sit Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms
And breed up warriors! See now, tho' yourself
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs That swallow common sense, the spindling king, This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. When the man wants weight the woman takes it up, And topples down the scales; but this is fixt As are the roots of earth and base of all. | Man for the field, and woman for the hearth: Man for the sword, and for the needle she . y Man with the head, and woman with the heart: Man to command, and woman to obey; | All else confusion. Look to it: the gray mare Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills From tile to scullery, and her small goodman Shrinks in his arm-chair, while the fires of Hell Mix with his hearth: but take and break her, you! She's yet a colt. Well groom'd and strongly curb’d, She might not rank with those detestable That to the hireling leave their babe, and brawl Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the street.
They say she's comely; there's the fairer chance: