Classic Poem

Azenath, child, I have errands for thee in town—
For now that the baby is ailing, I cannot leave.
When thou hast wiped the dishes, and made thy room,
And skimmed the cream for the churning, and set out
Clean linen for the supper-table tonight
To honor the new young parson and his bride,
Put on thy riding-skirt and saddle the mare,
Forgetting not the leather saddle-bags.
Thou'lt take this yarn that we have spun and dyed
From the young lambs' wool, unto Tom the weaver;
And tell him he shall follow my instruction,
And weave the finest cloth his loom can furnish
To make a coat and shorts thy father shall wear
To Congress in December. Think how proud
We both shall be to fit him grandly forth,
Sent on that seven-days' journey to make laws
For all our sovereign states, agreeing together
In brotherly peace against the quarrelling world!
Ah well, we are but women, knowing naught
Of great affairs, else would my weak heart tremble
At this bold doctrine of our President,
Stretching our flag to cover a continent
Of derelict Spanish rebels to the South—
So far away our fastest brig must sail
A long half-year to anchor in their ports!
We are but women, and would bide at home,
But men must shout their pride to the ends of the earth—
It is their kingly nature—and reach out
To gather in the world.


Go to the mill,
And tell Seth Hoyt to grind our wheat at once,
Now that the river has risen—we need the flour.
And finer and whiter he should sift it—tell him—
Than the last binful. Sith thou'rt a good girl,
Doing thy tasks, learning thy little lessons,
Thou'lt take this bunch of hides to Welsh, the tanner,
And choose his finest kid-skin for the gloves,
And a baby calf-skin for the little shoes
Thou'lt wear at Sylvia's wedding in the fall.
Bear these to Diggs the glover, and old Philip
Who makes my party shoes, and bid them measure
Thy hand and foot, and fit thee daintily.
Then to the grocer's for some tea from China—
Strange the good Lord should make us send so far
For this kind beverage—why should the leaves not grow
Here in my garden with the other herbs?
And some are boiling a new tropic bean,
Burnt in the oven and ground! It is a scandal
To take from the hand of the heathen these luxuries,
And give him in return the gold we sweat for,
To be upreared in temples to his gods!
I vow, my conscience gnaws me when I wear
My silken gown thy father bought for me
Four years ago come Christmas-time; although
The pattern was woven in France, a Christian nation—
If papists indeed be Christians in God's sight.
A state should be sufficient to itself,
The growth of its own soil; and luxury
Is the fat worm, to be destroyed in the bud
If we would see the fruit perfect and sound,
Fit to feed hardy men and mothering women.

Now to thy tasks—and child, always remember,
Doing them well, with neatness and dispatch,
Helps to build up a ruled and ordered state—
A true republic thou'lt be proud to bequeath
Unto thy children's children; where each man
Stands free before his God, and self-sufficient
Before his neighbor. Even a woman, a girl,
May do her part to make her country great
And build the future firmly on the past.

Go, get thee ready now; and for companion
One of thy little brothers shall ride with thee—
Matthew perhaps, or Jerry, for Peter and John
Are stacking hay today out in the field.