The Story
of Saville
Of their wealth for Ms use and behoof; her mother had travailed and died
That Kyrle in the fullness of time might have her to hold as a bride,—
She had studied the lore of the ages, had drawn from Pierian wells,
Her fingers and voice she had trained to blend as the pealing of silver bells,
She had learned to wile from the poet’s page a poetry more than his own,
Had won from the spinning earth its song and its axle’s undertone,
Merely that he in his barred black cell might feel himself less alone.
We can but smile at the modern cry for an equaler social plan,—
Man is the servant of God alone, but woman serves God and man,
And God is the greater, certainly, but man dwelleth here below,
Not at a vast vague altitude, too loftily far to know
If we lay at his altar the homage meek, the allegiance that we owe.
We may wrap in a napkin our talents and God will not thunder or smite,
