Man is the hunter; woman is his game; The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; They love us for it, and we ride them down : Boy, there's no rose that 's half so dear to them As he that does the thing they dare not do, Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in Among the women, snares them by the score Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd with death He reddens what he kisses: thus I won Your mother, a good mother, a good wife, To such as her! if Cyril spake her true, To trip a tigress with a gossamer, Were wisdom to it.' 'Yea but Sire,' I cried, • Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier? No: What dares not Ida do that she should prize The yesternight, and storming in extremes The violet varies from the lily as far As oak from elm: one loves the soldier, one They worth it? truer to the law within? Severer in the logic of a life? Twice as magnetic to sweet influences Of Earth and Heaven? and she of whom you speak, My mother, looks as whole as some serene Creation minted in the golden moods Of sovereign artists; not a thought, a touch, Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire, Nay, nay, you spake but sense' Said Gama. 'We remember love ourselves In our sweet youth; we did not rate him then This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. You talk almost like Ida: she can talk ; And there is something in it as you say: But you talk kindlier: we esteem you for it. He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, I would he had our daughter: for the rest Our own detention, why the causes weigh'd, You did but come as goblins in the night, Nor in the furrow broke the plowman's head, Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milking-maid, Nor robbed the farmer of his bowl of cream: Follow us who knows? we four may build some plan Foursquare to opposition.' Here he reach'd I White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl'd An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, Let so much out as gave us leave to go. Then rode we with the old king across the lawns Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke In the old king's ears, who promised help, and oozed All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode ; And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air On our mail'd heads: but other thoughts than Peace Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares, And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers With clamour for among them rose a cry : As if to greet the king; they made a halt; The horses yell'd; they clash'd their arms; the drum Beat; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial fife ; |