FURTHERMORE.
We, that are held of you in narrow chains,Sought for our beauty, thro' our folly raisedOne moment to a barren eminence,To drop in dreary nothingness, amazed;
We, dwarfed to suit the measure of your pride,Thwarted in all our pleasures and our powers,Have yet a sad, majestic recompense,The dignity of suffering, that is ours.
The proudest of you lives not but he wrungA woman's unresisting form with pain,While the long nurture of your helpless yearsBrought back the bitter childbirth throes again.
We wait upon your fancies, watch your will,Study your pleasure, oft with trembling heart,—Of the success and glory of your livesYe think it grace to yield the meanest part.
