Poems (Commelin)/A Woman's Choice
A WOMAN'S CHOICE.
Was I dreaming, was I waking, when the cares of day were o'er,
In the twilight, when the firelight glowed and shimmered on the floor,
Was it art of necromancer, fairy spell, or wizard's power
That enthralled my vagrant spirit in that dusk of evening hour?
Sooth I know not: I was weary, weary of the cares of day,
Longing for some flight of fancy, tired of work and tired of play.
And I sighed, oh fair enchantress, bring to me thy magic spell,
Lift the clouds that veil the ages, and their hidden secrets tell.
Find me romance, bring me visions, lives of women show to me,
Plain as artist paints the picture on the canvas that I see.
I, a woman, with a woman's ardent brain and throbbing heart,
Crave to know of lives of women, by thy weird, potential art.
Of the noble, of the stately, which to me may fairest seem;
While they pass and act before me, in my vivid, waking dream.
Mists and vapors rise and gather, all around are clouds like fleece,
Now they part and clear before me, and I stand in ancient Greece.
Brilliant Athens, rarest genius owes to thee its favored birth,
Regal in thy proud possessions, thou art famed o'er all the earth.
Yonder mansion I will enter, noiselessly I pass the door,
Heavy with its purple hangings to the rich, mosaic floor.
Sofas, divans, fringed and scarlet, tempt the weary to recline,
While, through bronzed and latticed windows, streams the sun in golden line.
Laden is the air with perfume, from the flower-beds,—the while
Wait we for the dwelling's mistress,—here, within the peristyle,
Vision graceful, thou Aspasia, dost thou live a charmèd life,
Sought by wisest for thy learning, yet beloved best as wife?
Noble art thou in thy beauty, tall, with auburn, curling hair,
In thy snowy tunic girdled, suiting well thy features fair.
Purple robe, embroidered richly, slender ankles, sandal- led feet,
All combine to make a picture for an artist's fancy meet.
Galaxy of splendor round thee, artists, sculptors, men most sage,
Scholars, students flock for converse with thee in this golden age—
But a shadow falleth on thee, envy, hatred, bitter strife,
Wizard, take away the picture! I would choose another life!
Fading, fading is fair Athens, temples, walls, and shining seats,
And anon a different landscape, smiling, all my vision greets,
Hills and valleys, brooks and fountains, fruit-trees, fields of flowers red,
Golden cornfields, rustling, swaying to the gleaner's eager tread.
Ruth, to Mara as a daughter, strong in thy affection's dower,
With the reapers, in the harvest, gleaning till the evening hour—
Eloquent as song of poet, sweeter than thy charm of face,
Thrill thy words adown the ages, mother of a mighty race!
Fond entreaty, while it lingers, ere its gentle echo dies,
Lo, a form of Grecian beauty stands before my startled eyes.
Small of stature, fine of feature, dazzling fair Egyptian queen,
She who won the love of Cæsar, by her witchery, I ween,
By her subtlety and learning, and the potence of her charm,
By her voice like strains of music, falling on the ear like balm.
Back, oh radiant Cleopatra, into time's dull Lethe, back,
All that's fairest, all that's finest, in thy affluence, thou dost lack.
Now before me regal, royal, meet two women, face to face,
One with haughty brow and bearing, pallid one, but full of grace.
One who cherished England's glory, but with jealous, cruel spleen,
One who conquered by her beauty and her majesty of mien:—
Conquered most by crown of martyr: nobler heroine, I trow,
Must thou find, oh wizard, ere I place my laurels on her brow.
"What dost crave," replied the wizard, "have not I brought forth to thee,
Royal pomp and pomp of learning, women wise and fair to see?"'
"Show me yet," I cried, discouraged, "ideal life and heart and mind,
If, in any age and country, one so fair thou yet mayest find."
Shades of evening, how they gather, yet, within the twilight' gloom,
I am conscious of a presence, quiet, thoughtful, in my room;
One who toiled for slave and freeman, strove for wrongs to win redress,
While she worked, with tireless fingers,—busy little Quakeress.
Useful toil for others' welfare made for her an honored lot;
Many blessed her name and loved it; fare-thee-well, Lucretia Mott.
Back again across the ocean, wandering o'er the British isles,
Through the fragrant English hedge-rows, where a landscape fresh beguiles,
But we need not find her birth-place, yet to know her honored name,
Poet, author, wisest thinker, world-wide in her self-made fame.
"Choir invisible," all glorious, had she writ but this alone,
To the coming generations should her name be loved and known.
Cold, bleak winds come sweeping o'er me, densest clouds are passing by,
As I tread the heathered moorland, 'neath a leaden Yorkshire sky;
And I see a low, stone building, with an ancient churchyard near,
Where, though dreary all the aspect, life itself is yet more drear.
Only genius's alembic, from such life could e'er distill
Joy to others, so that, dying, in our hearts she liveth still.
But a brighter picture wooes me, bids me yet again to roam,
Shows me Tuscan scenes,—fair Florence,—fairer still a light of home.
Casa Guidi,—there I see her,—slender, fragile English flower,
All too fragile, yet in spirit blessed with richest, rarest dower.
With a heart for all who suffer, with a poet's gift of song,
With a pen of lambent fire wielded ever 'gainst the wrong,
Yet more beautiful,—more lovely,—in her home and in her life,
Happy less with "nations praising" than with crown of mother—wife,—
Wizard, thou hast found, by searching, one for all my praises meet,
The laurel wreath,—this flower of thought,—I lay them at her feet!
In the twilight, when the firelight glowed and shimmered on the floor,
Was it art of necromancer, fairy spell, or wizard's power
That enthralled my vagrant spirit in that dusk of evening hour?
Sooth I know not: I was weary, weary of the cares of day,
Longing for some flight of fancy, tired of work and tired of play.
And I sighed, oh fair enchantress, bring to me thy magic spell,
Lift the clouds that veil the ages, and their hidden secrets tell.
Find me romance, bring me visions, lives of women show to me,
Plain as artist paints the picture on the canvas that I see.
I, a woman, with a woman's ardent brain and throbbing heart,
Crave to know of lives of women, by thy weird, potential art.
Of the noble, of the stately, which to me may fairest seem;
While they pass and act before me, in my vivid, waking dream.
Mists and vapors rise and gather, all around are clouds like fleece,
Now they part and clear before me, and I stand in ancient Greece.
Brilliant Athens, rarest genius owes to thee its favored birth,
Regal in thy proud possessions, thou art famed o'er all the earth.
Yonder mansion I will enter, noiselessly I pass the door,
Heavy with its purple hangings to the rich, mosaic floor.
Sofas, divans, fringed and scarlet, tempt the weary to recline,
While, through bronzed and latticed windows, streams the sun in golden line.
Laden is the air with perfume, from the flower-beds,—the while
Wait we for the dwelling's mistress,—here, within the peristyle,
Vision graceful, thou Aspasia, dost thou live a charmèd life,
Sought by wisest for thy learning, yet beloved best as wife?
Noble art thou in thy beauty, tall, with auburn, curling hair,
In thy snowy tunic girdled, suiting well thy features fair.
Purple robe, embroidered richly, slender ankles, sandal- led feet,
All combine to make a picture for an artist's fancy meet.
Galaxy of splendor round thee, artists, sculptors, men most sage,
Scholars, students flock for converse with thee in this golden age—
But a shadow falleth on thee, envy, hatred, bitter strife,
Wizard, take away the picture! I would choose another life!
Fading, fading is fair Athens, temples, walls, and shining seats,
And anon a different landscape, smiling, all my vision greets,
Hills and valleys, brooks and fountains, fruit-trees, fields of flowers red,
Golden cornfields, rustling, swaying to the gleaner's eager tread.
Ruth, to Mara as a daughter, strong in thy affection's dower,
With the reapers, in the harvest, gleaning till the evening hour—
Eloquent as song of poet, sweeter than thy charm of face,
Thrill thy words adown the ages, mother of a mighty race!
Fond entreaty, while it lingers, ere its gentle echo dies,
Lo, a form of Grecian beauty stands before my startled eyes.
Small of stature, fine of feature, dazzling fair Egyptian queen,
She who won the love of Cæsar, by her witchery, I ween,
By her subtlety and learning, and the potence of her charm,
By her voice like strains of music, falling on the ear like balm.
Back, oh radiant Cleopatra, into time's dull Lethe, back,
All that's fairest, all that's finest, in thy affluence, thou dost lack.
Now before me regal, royal, meet two women, face to face,
One with haughty brow and bearing, pallid one, but full of grace.
One who cherished England's glory, but with jealous, cruel spleen,
One who conquered by her beauty and her majesty of mien:—
Conquered most by crown of martyr: nobler heroine, I trow,
Must thou find, oh wizard, ere I place my laurels on her brow.
"What dost crave," replied the wizard, "have not I brought forth to thee,
Royal pomp and pomp of learning, women wise and fair to see?"'
"Show me yet," I cried, discouraged, "ideal life and heart and mind,
If, in any age and country, one so fair thou yet mayest find."
Shades of evening, how they gather, yet, within the twilight' gloom,
I am conscious of a presence, quiet, thoughtful, in my room;
One who toiled for slave and freeman, strove for wrongs to win redress,
While she worked, with tireless fingers,—busy little Quakeress.
Useful toil for others' welfare made for her an honored lot;
Many blessed her name and loved it; fare-thee-well, Lucretia Mott.
Back again across the ocean, wandering o'er the British isles,
Through the fragrant English hedge-rows, where a landscape fresh beguiles,
But we need not find her birth-place, yet to know her honored name,
Poet, author, wisest thinker, world-wide in her self-made fame.
"Choir invisible," all glorious, had she writ but this alone,
To the coming generations should her name be loved and known.
Cold, bleak winds come sweeping o'er me, densest clouds are passing by,
As I tread the heathered moorland, 'neath a leaden Yorkshire sky;
And I see a low, stone building, with an ancient churchyard near,
Where, though dreary all the aspect, life itself is yet more drear.
Only genius's alembic, from such life could e'er distill
Joy to others, so that, dying, in our hearts she liveth still.
But a brighter picture wooes me, bids me yet again to roam,
Shows me Tuscan scenes,—fair Florence,—fairer still a light of home.
Casa Guidi,—there I see her,—slender, fragile English flower,
All too fragile, yet in spirit blessed with richest, rarest dower.
With a heart for all who suffer, with a poet's gift of song,
With a pen of lambent fire wielded ever 'gainst the wrong,
Yet more beautiful,—more lovely,—in her home and in her life,
Happy less with "nations praising" than with crown of mother—wife,—
Wizard, thou hast found, by searching, one for all my praises meet,
The laurel wreath,—this flower of thought,—I lay them at her feet!