The torrents, dash'd to the vale: and yet her will Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. But when I told the king that I was pledged To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd Himself would tilt it out among the lads: With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce All on this side the palace ran the field A column'd entry shone and marbled stairs, But now fast barr'd: so here upon the flat All that long morn the lists were hammer'd up, With message and defiance went and came ; Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, But shaken here and there, and rolling words O brother, you have known the pangs we felt, Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's feet; 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 equal baseness lived in sleeker times With smoother men: the old leaven leaven'd all : Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights, No woman named therefore I set my face Far off from men I built a fold for them: I stored it full of rich memorial: I fenced it round with gallant institutes, And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey, Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know not what Of insolence and love, some pretext held Of baby troth, invalid, since my will Seal'd not the bond-the striplings !-for their sport! I tamed my leopards: shall I not tame these? Or you ? or I? for since you think me touch'd In honour-what, I would not aught of false— Take not his life: he risk'd it for my own; And mould a generation strong to move O dear With claim on claim from right to right, till she 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! Than thus man-girdled here: indeed I think Of one unworthy mother; which she left: She shall not have it back the child shall To prize the authentic mother of her mind. grow This morning there the tender orphan hands Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs That swallow common sense, the spindling king, This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. |