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If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life;
Waking affections that might else have slept;
Or high resolves, though petrified before;
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth,
Thine is an useless lute;-break it, and die!"
Summer Evening's Tale. Venetian Bracelet.
And thou with those strangely mingled gifts of woman's clinging home-bound affections, and the restless wings of genius; thou who, perhaps, hast made
"Thy heart too like a temple for a home,"
yet whose spirit-music echoes the words,
"I am a woman, tell me not of fame!
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows, where the dove would die.
The lily of the valley—mark how pure
The snowy blossoms, and how soft a breath
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves!
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root–
A healing power dwells there—fragrant and fair,
But dwelling still in some beloved shade.
Is not this woman's emblem? she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home—
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep,
And in his sickness, sorrow, with an aid,
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt."
History of the Lyre.
Ay, do thou, fair enthusiast, look on thy prototypes, and read thy life's history in the fates of the glorious, the intellectual Erinna, of the gentle yet impassioned Eulalie.
