For him and by him was man made: Sole heir of the earth and its treasures; An after-thought, woman--the handmaid, Not of G.o.d, but of man and his pleasures.

Should you say that man's G.o.d would reprove us, If we found him and showed him our bruises?

It is dreary with no one to love us, Or to hold back the hand that abuses: Man's hand, that first led and caressed us, Man's lips, that first kissed and betrayed;-- If his G.o.d could know how he's oppressed us, Do you think that we need be afraid?

For we loved him--and he who stood nearest To G.o.d, who could doubt or disdain?

When he swore by that G.o.d, and the dearest Of boons that he hoped to obtain Of that G.o.d, that he truly would keep us In his heart of hearts precious and only: Say, how could we think he would steep us In sorrow, and leave us thus lonely?

But you see how it is: he has left us, This demi-G.o.d, heir of creation; Of our only good gifts has bereft us, And mocked at our mad desolation: Says that we knew that such oaths would be broken-- Says we lured him to lie and betray; Quotes the word of his G.o.d as a token Of the law that makes woman his prey.

And now what shall we do? We have given To this master our handmaiden's dower: Our beauty and youth, aye, and even Our souls have we left in his power.

Though we thought when we loved him, that loving Made of woman an angel, not demon; We have found, to our fond faith's disproving, That love makes of woman a leman!

Yes, we gave, and he took: took not merely What we gave, for his lying pretences: But our whole woman world, that so dearly We held by till then: our defences Of home, of fair fame; the affection Of parents and kindred; the human Delight of child-love; the protection That is everywhere owed to a woman.

You say there's a Being all-loving, Whose nature is justice and pity: Could you say where you think he is roving?

We have sought him from city to city.

We have called unto him, our eyes streaming With the tears of our pain and despair: We have shouted unto him blaspheming, And whispered unto him in prayer.

But he sleeps, or is absent, or lending His ear to man's prouder pet.i.tion: And the black silence over us bending Scorches hot with the breath of perdition.

For this fair world of man's, in which woman Pays for all that she gets with her beauty, Is a desert that starves out the human, When her charms charm not squarely with duty.

For man were we made, says the preacher, To love him and serve him in meekness, Of man's G.o.d is man solely the teacher Interpreting unto our weakness: He the teacher, the master, dispenser Not only of law, but of living, Breaks his own law with us, then turns censor, Accusing, but never forgiving.

Do you think that we have not been nursing Resentment for wrong and betrayal?

From our hearts, filled with gall, rises cursing, To our own and our masters' dismayal.

'Tis for this that we seek the all-loving, Whose nature is justice and pity; And we'll find Him, wherever he's roving, In country, in town, or in city.

He must show us his justice, who made us; He must place sin where sin was conceived; We must know if man's G.o.d will upbraid us Because we both loved and believed.

We must know if man's riches and power, His t.i.tles, crowns, sceptres and ermine, Weigh with G.o.d against womanhood's dower, Or whether man's guilt they determine.

It would seem that man's G.o.d should restrain him, Or else should avenge our dishonor: Shall the cries of the hopeless not pain him, Or shall woman take all guilt upon her?

Let us challenge the maker that made us; Let us cry to Christ, son of a woman; We shall learn if, when man has betrayed us, Heaven's justice accords with the human.

We must know if because we were lowly, And kept in the place man a.s.signed us, He could seek us with pa.s.sions unholy And be free, while his penalties bind us.

We would ask if his gold buys exemption, Or whether his manhood acquits him; How it is that we scarce find redemption For sins less than his self-law permits him.

Do we dare the Almighty to question?

Shall the clay to the potter appeal?

To whom else shall we go with suggestion?

Shall the vase not complain to the wheel?

G.o.d answered Job out of the groaning Of thunder and whirlwind and hailing; Will he turn a deaf ear to our moaning, Or reply to our prayers with railing?

Did you speak of a Christ who is tender-- A deity born of a woman?

Of the sorrowful, G.o.d and defender, And brother and friend of the human?

Long ago He ascended to heaven, Long ago was His teaching forgotten; The lump has no longer the leaven, But is heavy, unwholesome and rotten.

The G.o.ds are all man's, whom he praises For laws that make woman his creature; For the rest, theological mazes Furnish work for the salaried preacher.

In the youth of the world it was better, We had deities then of our choosing; We could pray, though we wore then a fetter, To a G.o.dDESS of binding and loosing.

We could kneel in a grove or a temple, No man's heavy hand on our shoulder: Had in Pallas Athene example To make womanhood stronger and bolder.

But the temples are broken and plundered, Sacred altars profanely o'erthrown; Where the oracle trembled and thundered, Are a cavern, a fount, and a stone.

Yet we would of the Christ hear the story, 'Twas familiar in days that are ended; His humility, purity, glory, Are they not into heaven ascended?

We see naught but scorning and hating; We hear naught but threats and contemning: For your Christian is good and berating, And your sinner is first in condemning.

Should you say that the Christ would reprove us, If we found him and told him our trouble?

It is fearful with no one to love us, And our pain and despair growing double.

It is mad'ning to feel we're excluded From the homes of the mothers that bore us; And that man, by no false arts deluded, May enter unchallenged before us.

It is hard to be humble when trodden; We cannot be meek when oppressed; Nor pure while our souls are made sodden With loathing that can't be confessed; Or true, while our bread and our shelter By a lying pretence is obtained-- Deceived, in deception we welter; By a touch are we evermore stained.

O hard lot of woman! the creature Of a creature whose G.o.d is asleep, Or gone on a journey. You teach her She was made to sin, suffer, and weep; We wait for a new revelation, We cry for a G.o.d of our own; O G.o.d unrevealed, bring salvation, From our necks lift the collar of stone!

REPOSE.

I lay me down straight, with closed eyes, And pale hands folded across my breast, Thinking, unpained, of the sad surprise Of those who shall find me thus fall'n to rest; And the grief in their looks when they learn no endeavor, Can disturb my repose--for my sleep is forever.

I know that a smile will lie hid in my eyes, Even a soft throb of joy stir the pulse in my breast, When they sit down to mourning, with tears and with sighs, And shudder at death, which to me is but rest.

So sweet to be parted at once from our pain; To put off our care as a robe that is worn; To drop like a link broken out of a chain, And be lost in the sands by Time's tide overborne: And to know at my loss all the wildest regretting, Will be as a foot-print, washed out in forgetting.

To be certain of this--that my faults perish first; That when they behold me so calmly asleep, They can but forgive me my errors at worst, And speak of my praises alone as they weep.

"Whom the G.o.ds love die young," they will say; Though they should think it, they will not say so: "Whom the world pierces with thorns pa.s.s away, Grieving, yet asking and longing to go!"

No, when they see how divine my repose is, They'll forget that my-life-path is not over roses; And they'll whisper together, with hands full of flowers, How always I loved them to wear on my breast; And strewing them over my bosom in showers, With hands shaken by sobs, leave me softly to rest.

There is one who will come when the rest are away; One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair; He knows how I liked it, worn always that way, And his fingers will tremble while placing it there.

Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes, When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses; He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers, And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest; But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours, Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.

So, all will forget, what to think of mere pain, That the heart now asleep in this solemn repose, Had contended with tempests of sorrow in vain, And gone down in the strife at the feet of its foes: They will choose to be mute when a deed I have done, Or a word I have spoke I can no more atone; They'll remember I loved them, was faithful and true; They'll not say what a wild will abode in my breast; But repeat to each other, as if they were new, Old stories of what did the loved one at rest.

Ah! while I lie soothing my soul with this dream, The terror of waking comes back to my heart; Why is it not as I thus make it seem?

Must I come back to the world, ere we part?

Deep was the swoon of my spirit--why break it?

Why bring me back to the struggles that shake it?

Alas, there is room on my feet for fresh bruises-- The flowers are not dead on my brow or my breast-- When shall I learn "sweet adversity's uses,"

And my tantalized spirit be truly at rest!

ASPASIA.

O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise, What dreams I had of you, beside the sea, In far Miletus! while the golden days Slid into silver nights, so sweet to me; For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er, Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow-- Libations of both heart and wine did pour, And offered up my being with my vow.

'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at last My life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learn To love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast, Your captive and your conquerer in turn; Am I not shamed to match my charms with those Of fair boy-beauties? gentled for your love To match the freshness of the morning rose, And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove.

O, men of Athens! by the purple sea In far Miletus, when I dreamed of you, Watching the winged ships that invited me To follow their white track upon the blue; 'Twas the desire to mate my lofty soul That drew me ever like a viewless chain Toward Homer's land of heroes, 'til I stole Away from home and dreams, to you and pain.

I brought you beauty--but your _boys_ invade My woman's realm of love with girlish airs.

I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade, To charm, to teach, with your philosophers.

But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold; And I who am your equal am cast down Level with those who sell themselves for gold-- A crownless queen--a woman of the town!