| 'T IS fifteen hundred years, you say, | |
| Since that fair teacher died | |
| In learnèd Alexandria | |
| By the stone altar's side:— | |
| The wild monks slew her, as she lay | 5 |
| At the feet of the Crucified. | |
| |
| Yet in a prairie-town, one night, | |
| I found her lecture-hall, | |
| Where bench and dais stood aright, | |
| And statues graced the wall, | 10 |
| And pendent brazen lamps the light | |
| Of classic days let fall. | |
| |
| A throng that watched the speaker's face | |
| And on her accents hung, | |
| Was gathered there: the strength, the grace | 15 |
| Of lands where life is young | |
| Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race | |
| From old Pelasgia sprung. | |
| |
| No civic crown the sibyl wore, | |
| Nor academic tire, | 20 |
| But shining skirts, that trailed the floor | |
| And made her stature higher; | |
| A written scroll the lecturn bore, | |
| And flowers bloomed anigh her. | |
| |
| The wealth her honeyed speech had won | 25 |
| Adorned her in our sight; | |
| The silkworm for her sake had spun | |
| His cincture, day and night; | |
| With broider-work and Honiton | |
| Her open sleeves were bright. | 30 |
| |
| But still Hypatia's self I knew, | |
| And saw, with dreamy wonder, | |
| The form of her whom Cyril slew | |
| (See Kingsley's novel, yonder) | |
| Some fifteen centuries since, 't is true, | 35 |
| And half a world asunder. | |
| |
| Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise, | |
| With one loose tress down-flowing; | |
| Apollo's rapture lit her eyes, | |
| His utterance bestowing,— | 40 |
| A silver flute's clear harmonies | |
| On which a god was blowing. | |
| |
| Yet not of Plato's sounding spheres, | |
| And universal Pan, | |
| She spoke; but searched historic years, | 45 |
| The sisterhood to scan | |
| Of women,—girt with ills and fears,— | |
| Slaves to the tyrant, Man. | |
| |
| Their crosiered banner she unfurled, | |
| And onward pushed her quest | 50 |
| Through golden ages of a world | |
| By their deliverance blest:— | |
| At all who stay their hands she hurled | |
| Defiance from her breast. | |
| |
| I saw her burning words infuse | 55 |
| A warmth through many a heart, | |
| As still, in bright successive views, | |
| She drew her sex's part; | |
| Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse, | |
| On work, and song, and art. | 60 |
| |
| Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say | |
| The later is the less? | |
| Our Sappho sang but yesterday, | |
| Of whom two climes confess | |
| Heaven's flame within her wore away | 65 |
| Her earthly loveliness. | |
| |
| So let thy wild heart ripple on, | |
| Brave girl, through vale and city! | |
| Spare, of its listless moments, one | |
| To this, thy poet's ditty; | 70 |
| Nor long forbear, when all is done, | |
| Thine own sweet self to pity. | |
| |
| The priestess of the Sestian tower, | |
| Whose knight the sea swam over, | |
| Among her votaries' gifts no flower | 75 |
| Of heart's-ease could discover: | |
| She died, but in no evil hour, | |
| Who, dying, clasped her lover. | |
| |
| The rose-tree has its perfect life | |
| When the full rose is blown; | 80 |
| Some height of womanhood the wife | |
| Beyond thy dream has known; | |
| Set not thy head and heart at strife | |
| To keep thee from thine own. | |
| |
| Hypatia! thine essence rare | 85 |
| The rarer joy should merit: | |
| Possess thee of the common share | |
| Which lesser souls inherit: | |
| All gods to thee their garlands bear,— | |
| Take one from Love and wear it! | 90 |
