Classic Poem

Ah! with no careless pen would I report
Our words on such a topic, 't is a text
For divine sermons, did the angels preach,
Its bearings wide as half the human race.
Let no untimely deed, no crude desire
Profane our aspiration, it should rise
And swell and broaden like the blessed light
Which momently, yet with so soft a sound
We cannot hear its coming, opens out
Its silver wings and mounts the slopes of dawn.
It should, like an accumulating flood,
Gather its forces from a thousand rills,
Until by its unquestionable might
It sweep the rocks away, yet scarcely show
A foam-flake on its bosom, steadfastly
Careering to the sea. A spirit moves
Amidst the silk of gilded drawing-rooms
And in laborious homes, with equal voice
It summons us to labour and to prayer, —
To labour which is prayer, and which alone
Can solve the question which the age demands,
" What is a woman's right, and fitting sphere?"
How best she may, with free and willing mind,
Develope every special genius,
Retaining and perfecting every charm
And sweetness sung of old, so, evenpaced,
Walk in a joint obedience with man,
And equal freedom of the law of God,
Up to the height of an immortal hope.
Vainly would any poet, tho' he own'd
The " double-nature" of the poet breed,
Paint the completed circle of her powers,
Whose germs await the future, undisclosed.
What she will be, she can alone define,
Nor knows she yet, but, dimly feeling, strives
To gain the fair ideal; what she will do
Is folded in her nature, as the flower
Is folded in the bud, or masterpiece
Of statuary in marble. She is not
Like some dead animal whose nerves and veins,
Bones, muscles, functions, powers and highest use
Can be defined by an anatomist
Brooding above her with a sharpen'd knife.

Suppose some small philosopher declared
" Man is a creature framed to such an end,
And this is his ideal, which attain'd
He will not top; this is the possible
Of his capacity, perhaps a fact
At which ambitious strugglers will rebel,
But none less true for that, let him sit down
And swallow it in silence." — Witness all,
That this is said of women every day.
Diverse in nature, with unsparing creed
They limit hers, unseeing where it tends. —
Girdle with iron bands the sapling tree,
It shoots into deformity, but He
Who first its feeble breath of life inspired,
Ordain'd its growth by an interior law
To full development of loveliness,
Whereof the planter wots not till he leaves
It to the kindly care of elements
And the free seasons' change of storm and shine.
Not for a moment would I underrate
That sweet ideal which has charm'd the world
For ages, and will never cease to charm.
Fair as the creatures of an upper sphere,
Women among the charities of home
Walk noiseless, undefiled; ah! who would wish
To turn from this green fertilizing course
Such rills of promise! let each amplify
In its own proper measure far and wide,
According to its bounty; sacred be
The radiant tresses of such ministers,
And beautiful their feet; but with my voice,
And with my pen, and with mine uttermost,
I say this is not all, and even this,
This loveliest life to hidden music set,
Must be a blossom of spontaneous growth,
Must spring from aptitude and natural use
Of gracious deeds, not hardly forced on all
As the sole good and fit, lest it decay
Under the pressure to a loathsome thing,
A thing of idleness and sensuous mind,
At which the angels weep. If this be all,
Speak, thou true heart, out from the hungry sea
Which suck'd thee down just in thy fruit of life,
Speak, wife and mother, from that unmark'd grave
Which those so vainly seek who loved thee well,
Speak, rather, Margaret, from thy seat in heaven,
Where thou, in knowledge larger, but in love
Scarce more perfected, dost those days recall
Spent in strong aspiration and pursuit
Of dim ideals, now reveal'd in full,
With shape sustain'd and meanings more divine.
Ah, could I give thy dear and honour'd name
Some little tribute, who wert brave and bold,
And faithful, as are few! 'T is a small thing,
An easy thing, to write such witty words
As Lowell wrote of thee; 't is a hard thing,
A royal thing, to live so kind a life, —
Dying, to leave so dear a memory,
And such a want where thou wast wont to be.
Now let these earnest martyrs, and this hope
Which ferments round, one special prayer suggest;
That, as the founders of a colony
Create a nation's heart, so we, who strive
For the foundation of a principle,
May work with pure hands and a clean heart,
Regarding nought as trivial; be it said, —
As of those noble hearts who left their land
And planted a new empire with the seeds
Of piety and strength, — " they very much
Did labour for the world, and the mere rights
Of man amidst his fellows, but, with zeal
Far more inclusive, gave their lives to God."