No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things That Sheba came to ask of Solomon."
"Be it so," the other, "that we still may lead The new light up, and culminate in peace, For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." Said Cyril, "Madam, he the wisest man, Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you (Though madam you should answer, we would ask) Less welcome find among us, if you came Among us, debtors for our lives to you, Myself for something more." He said not what, But "Thanks," she answered, "go: we have been too long
Together: keep your hoods about the face; They do so that affect abstraction here.
Speak little; mix not with the rest; and hold Your promise: all, I trust, may yet be well."
We turned to go, but Cyril took the child, And held her round the knees against his waist, And blew the swollen cheek of a trumpeter, While Psyche watched them, smiling, and the child Pushed her flat hand against his face and laughed And thus our conference closed.
And then we strolled
For half the day through stately theatres
Benched crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard The grave Professor. On the lecture slate
The circle rounded under female hands
With flawless demonstration: followed then A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies
And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long, That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever: then we dipt in all That treats of whatsoever is, the state,
The total chronicles of man, the mind, The morals, something of the frame, the rock, The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest,
And whatsoever can be taught and known; Till like three horses that have broken fence, And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke : Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we. They hunt old trails," said Cyril,
very well; But when did woman ever yet invent?" Ungracious!" answered Florian, " have you learnt No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talked The trash that made me sick, and almost sad? "O trash," he said, "but with a kernel in it. Should I not call her wise who made me wise? And learnt? I learnt more from her in a flash, Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, And every Muse tumbled a science in. A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls And round these halls a thousand baby loves Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, Whence follows many a vacant pang; but O With me, Sir, entered in the bigger boy, The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, The long-limbed lad that had a Psyche too; He cleft me through the stomacher; and now What think you of it, Florian? do I chase The substance or the shadow? will it hold? I have no sorcerer's malison on me, No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I Flatter myself that always, everywhere, I know the substance when I see it. Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is she The sweet proprietress a shadow? If not, Shall those three castles patch my tattered coat? For dear are those three castles to my wants, And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, And two dear things are one of double worth,
And much I might have said, but that my zone Unmanned me: then the Doctors! O to hear The Doctors! O to watch the thirsty plants Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar, To break my chain, to shake my mane: but thou, Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry! Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat; Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet Star-sisters answering under crescent brows; Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, Where they like swallows coming out of time Will wonder why they came: but hark the bell For dinner, let us go!"
And in we streamed Among the columns, pacing staid and still By twos and threes, till all from end to end With beauties every shade of brown and fair, In colors gayer than the morning mist,
The long hall glittered like a bed of flowers. How might a man not wander from his wits, Pierced through with eyes, but that I kept mine
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams The second-sight of some Astræan age, Sat compassed with professors: they, the while, Discussed a doubt, and tossed it to and fro: A clamor thickened, mixed with inmost terms Of art and science; Lady Blanche alone, Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, With all her Autumn tresses falsely brown, Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat In act to spring.
At last a solemn grace Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there One walked reciting by herself, and one In this hand held a volume as to read,
And smoothed a petted peacock down with that: Some to a low song oared a shallop by, Or under arches of the marble bridge
Hung, shadowed from the heat: some hid and sought
In the orange thickets: others tost a ball Above the fountain-jets, and back again With laughter: others lay about the lawns, Of the older sort, and murmured that their May Was passing what was learning unto them? They wished to marry; they could rule a house; Men hated learned women: but we three Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came Melissa, hitting all we saw with shafts Of gentle satire, kin to charity,
That harmed not: then day droopt; the chapel bells
Called us: we left the walks; we mixt with those Six hundred maidens, clad in purest white, Before two streams of light from wall to wall, While the great organ almost burst his pipes, Groaning for power, and rolling through the court A long melodious thunder to the sound
Of solemn psalms and silver litanies,
The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven A blessing on her labors for the world.
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest, - Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep
MORN in the white wake of the morning star Came furrowing all the orient into gold. We rose, and each by other drest with care Descended to the court that lay three parts In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touched Above the darkness from their native East.
There while we stood beside the fount, and watched
Or seemed to watch the dancing bubble, approached Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep,
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes The circled Iris of a night of tears;
"And fly," she cried, "O fly, while yet you may! My mother knows:" and when I asked her "how," My fault," she wept, my fault! and yet not
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me! My mother, 'tis her wont from night to night To rail at Lady Psyche and her side.
She says the Princess should have been the Head, Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms; And so it was agreed when first they came ; But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, And she the left, or not, or seldom used; Hers more than half the students, all the love. And so last night she fell to canvass you: Her country women! she did not envy her. Who ever saw such wild barbarians?
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