THE mother sings unto her babe: "Beauty is vain and not to be desired; The good alone are loved." The babe, each day she older grows, Shall find the fairy-lore of babyhood Is far more true than is her mother's tale. Beauty alone gives woman power, Alone can win man's selfish heart, Alone that selfish heart can pain; Merit may hold her hand to Love, And Intellect try silver speech; Beauty, though dumb, shall win the day, And prove thy mother lied. The father speaks unto his son: "O, brave young heart, Ambition shun, For only woe her followers win." Blind love! that cannot see How grand Ambition sits above, How high in stately majesty o'ertops The little virtues men do woo. But if the youth, unheeding, climb So high he gazes on her face, Her regal brow snow crowned, He 'll kiss her garment's hem, and die; And, dying, thrill with noble joy To know his father lied.
The poet sings unto the world Of Patience' calm sweet face, The blessings rare that fall on those Whose brows her fillet wear. But aching hearts too soon do find She 's Sorrow's sister, twin to Pain. With time doth Sorrow's hold grow faint; Pain, though severe, is brief; She, like a gaunt and cruel wolf, Her victim followeth,—till Death, More merciful, beareth away her prey. The writing on the still cold face Proclaims the poet lied.
Man tells to man the crimes of Pride,— The pygmies, hurling shafts because They know her not! Their puny selves Can see no higher than themselves. Virtue from Vice may snatch a wretch,— Her thousands Pride, yet asks no thanks. When Life on crimson tide recedes, False Hope and pale Religion flee; Pride lays her hand upon the wound, Her fiery touch the flow doth stanch. The scar her royal mantle hides, And kingly port alone reveals That man hath lied to man.
