Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/100

’Tis scarcely that the world’s more good and wise
Or even straighter and more consequent
Since yesterday at this time—yet, again,
If but one angel spoke from Ararat,
I should be very sorry not to hear:
So open all the letters! let me read.
Blanche Ord, the writer in the ‘Lady’s Fan,’
Requests my judgment on . . that, afterwards.
Kate Ward desires the model of my cloak,
And signs, ‘Elisha to you.’ Pringle Sharpe
Presents his work on ‘Social Conduct,’ . . craves
A little money for his pressing debts . .
From me, who scarce have money for my needs,—
Art’s fiery chariot which we journey in
Being apt to singe our singing-robes to holes,
Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate Ward!
Here’s Rudgely knows it,—editor and scribe—
He’s forced to marry where his heart is not,
Because the purse lacks where he lost his heart.
Ah,——lost it because no one picked it up!
That’s really loss! (and passable impudence.)
My critic Hammond flatters prettily,
And wants another volume like the last.
My critic Belfair wants another book
Entirely different, which will sell, (and live?)
A striking book, yet not a startling book,
The public blames originalities.
(You must not pump spring-water unawares
Upon a gracious public, full of nerves—)

Good things, not subtle, new yet orthodox,