Continental Monthly, Vol. III, No IV, April 1863

Wider spheres would open for me; – dazzled, I became a bride:

Fondly deemed my lonely mother would be freed from sordid care;
Splendor I might pour around her, every joy with her might share.

Then the Poet, who had never breathed one word of love to me, —
We might shape his life-course for him, give him culture wide and free.

How I longed to turn the pages, with a husband's hand as guide,
Of the long-past golden ages, art and science at my side!

To my simple fancy seemed it almost everything he knew —
Ah! he might have won affection, faithful, fervent, trusting, true!

I was happy, never dreaming wealth congeals the human soul,
Freezing all its generous impulse – I but saw its wide control.

Years have passed – a larger culture poured strange knowledge through my mind —
I have learned to read man's nature: better I were ever blind!

How can I take upon me what I look upon with scorn,
Or learn to brook my own contempt, or trample the forlorn?

I cannot live by rote and rule; I was not born a slave
To narrow fancies; I must feel, although a husband rave!

I cannot choose my friends because I know them rich, or great;
My heart elects the noble, – what cares love for wealth or state?

Very lovely are my pictures, saints and angels throng my hall —
But with shame my cheek is flushing, and my quivering lashes fall:

Can I gaze on pictured actions, daring deeds, and emprise high,
And not feel my degradation while these fetters round me lie?

Once the Poet came to see me, but it gave me nought but pain;
I was glad to see the Gifted go, ne'er to return again.

For my husband scorning told me: 'True, his lines were very sweet,
But his clothes, so worn and seedy – scarce for me acquaintance meet!

Artists, poets, men of genius, truly should be better paid,
But not holding our position, cannot be our friends,' he said.

'As gentlemen to meet them were a very curious thing;
They were happier in their garrets – there let them sigh or sing.

There were Travers and De Courcy – could he ask them home to dine,
At the risk of meeting truly such strange fellows o'er their wine?'

Then he said, 'My cheeks were peachy, lips were coral, curls were gold,
But he liked them braided crown-like, and with pearls and diamonds rolled.

I was once a little peasant; now I stood a jewelled queen —
Fitter that a calmer presence in his stately wife were seen!'

Then he gave a gorgeous card-case; set with rubies, Roman gold,
Handed me a paper with it, strands of pearls around it rolled;

Names of all his wife should visit I would find upon the roll: —
Found I none I loved within it – not one friend upon the scroll!

And my mother, God forgive me! I was glad to see her go,
Ere the current of her loving heart had turned like mine to snow.

Must I still seem fair and stately, choking down my bosom's strife,
Because 'all deep emotions were unseemly in his wife'?

Must I gasp 'neath diamonds' glitter – walk in lustrous silken sheen —
Leaving those I love in anguish while I play some haughty scene?

I am choking! closer round me crowds convention's stifling vault —
Every meanness's called a virtue – every virtue deemed a fault!

Every generous thought is scandal; every noble deed is crime;
Every feeling's wrapped in fiction, and truth only lives in rhyme!

No; – I am not fashion's minion, – I am not convention's slave!
If 'obedience is for woman,' still she has a soul to save.

Must I share their haughty falsehood, take my part in social guile,
Cut my dearest friends, and stab them with a false, deceitful smile?

Creeping like a serpent through me, faint, I feel a deadly chill,
Freezing all the good within me, icy fetters chain my will.

Do I grow like those around me? will I learn to bear my part
In this glittering world of fashion, taming down a woman's heart?

Must I lower to my husband? is it duty to abate
All the higher instincts in me, till I grow his fitting mate?

Shall I muse on noble pictures, turn the poet's stirring page,
And grow base and mean in action, petty with a petty age?

I am heart-sick, weary, weary! tell me not that this life,
Where all that's truly living must be pruned by fashion's knife! —

I can make my own existence – spurn his gifts, and use my hands,
Though the senseless world of fashion for the deed my memory brands.