The Story
of Saville
That biddeth her eat and cover her limbs and maketh a decent pretense
To veil with chatter or shroud with silence the shame of her ignorance dense,—
She may have a lupine and viperish soul, disintegrate with disease,
Fibrous and pulpy with poison, a pestilence spoiling the breeze,—
’Tis a pitiful comment on this our life that a woman may have all these,
And yet for her royal favor a man will sue on his knees,
Dazzled so blind by her beautiful face that never a fault he sees!
If ever a woman on earth might hope to be worshipped for mind alone,
Or heart or soul, ’twas Saville, who was worthy the love of a prince to have known,—
But ah! ’tis impossible—nature revolts—men may sin against God on high,
But not ’gainst the law of selection; however they truckle and lie
And successfully feign, they cannot love a thing from which love must fly,—
Poor girl! she had seen in pauper’s hovels where she was dispensing bread
