"Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write My curse to-night.

Because thou hast strength to see and hate A foul thing done _within_ thy gate."

"Not so," I answered once again.

"To curse, choose men.

For I, a woman, have only known How the heart melts and the tears run down."

"Therefore," the voice said, "shalt thou write My curse to-night.

Some women weep and curse, I say (And no one marvels), night and day.

"And thou shalt take their part to-night, Weep and write.

A curse from the depths of womanhood Is very salt, and bitter, and good."

So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed, What all may read.

And thus, as was enjoined on me, I send it over the Western Sea.

THE CURSE.

I.

Because ye have broken your own chain With the strain Of brave men climbing a Nation's height, Yet thence bear down with brand and thong On souls of others,--for this wrong This is the curse. Write.

Because yourselves are standing straight In the state Of Freedom's foremost acolyte, Yet keep calm footing all the time On writhing bond-slaves,--for this crime This is the curse. Write.

Because ye prosper in G.o.d's name, With a claim To honour in the old world's sight, Yet do the fiend's work perfectly In strangling martyrs,--for this lie This is the curse. Write.

II.

Ye shall watch while kings conspire Round the people's smouldering fire, And, warm for your part, Shall never dare--O shame!

To utter the thought into flame Which burns at your heart.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while nations strive With the bloodhounds, die or survive, Drop faint from their jaws, Or throttle them backward to death; And only under your breath Shall favour the cause.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while strong men draw The nets of feudal law To strangle the weak; And, counting the sin for a sin, Your soul shall be sadder within Than the word ye shall speak.

This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erect That Christ may avenge his elect And deliver the earth, The prayer in your ears, said low, Shall sound like the tramp of a foe That's driving you forth.

This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise, They shall pause in the heat of the phrase, As if carried too far.

When ye boast your own charters kept true Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do Derides what ye are.

This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate, Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate As ye look o'er the wall; For your conscience, tradition, and name Explode with a deadlier blame Than the worst of them all.

This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done, Go, plant your flag in the sun Beside the ill-doers!

And recoil from clenching the curse Of G.o.d's witnessing Universe With a curse of yours.

THIS is the curse. Write.

LAST POEMS

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

These Poems are given as they occur on a list drawn up last June. A few had already been printed in periodicals.

There is hardly such direct warrant for publishing the Translations; which were only intended, many years ago, to accompany and explain certain Engravings after ancient Gems, in the projected work of a friend, by whose kindness they are now recovered: but as two of the original series (the "Adonis" of Bion and "Song to the Rose" from Achilles Tatius) have subsequently appeared, it is presumed that the remainder may not improperly follow.

A single recent version is added.

LONDON: _February 1862_.

TO "GRATEFUL FLORENCE,"

TO THE MUNIc.i.p.aLITY HER REPRESENTATIVE, AND TO TOMMASEO ITS SPOKESMAN, MOST GRATEFULLY.

LITTLE MATTIE.

I.

Dead! Thirteen a month ago!

Short and narrow her life's walk; Lover's love she could not know Even by a dream or talk: Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honour, labour, rest, And the warmth of a babe's mouth At the blossom of her breast.

Must you pity her for this And for all the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face, Having had all in your case?

II.

Just so young but yesternight, Now she is as old as death.

Meek, obedient in your sight, Gentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday! Yours, Answering you like silver bells Lightly touched! An hour matures: You can teach her nothing else.

She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

III.

Cross her quiet hands, and smooth Down her patient locks of silk, Cold and pa.s.sive as in truth You your fingers in spilt milk Drew along a marble floor; But her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more, "Yes," or "No," or such a thing: Though you call and beg and wreak Half your soul out in a shriek, She will lie there in default And most innocent revolt.

IV.