I HAVE a friend whose dignity refuses To smile upon a girl who courts the Muses. He deems the female mind too meanly wrought To bear the tension of exalted thought; And views each effort of a woman's pen As an infringement on the rights of men. And though her lyre be tuned to sweetest chords, Contempt is all his answering soul awards. He says that women, in the good old times, Spun wool and flax, instead of spinning rhymes; And, for example, prates of ancient dames Who gloried only in their husband's names,— In presence of their lordly dignity Veiled their heads in meek benignity; That literature, in those Pierian ages, Was cultivated only by the sages; And sighs to think how things have changed since then, When women knew their spheres and men were men.
What think you, sisters, of my gifted friend, Whose self-respect refuses to descend From the high standard of the rights of men, To ever read an essay from your pen? Think you 'twere better we should all resign Our humble efforts, and our works consign, En masse, to the devouring flame,—that we May, peradventure, win his sympathy? Or shall we, at the risk of his disdain, Dare tune our playful lyres to song again? I wait your answer in profound suspense, And tremble lest e'en this should give offence.
