A BIRD OF PREY.
The Laureate, seeking Love's last law,
Finds "Nature red in tooth and claw
With ravin"; fierce and ruthless.
But Woman? Bard who so should sing
Of her, the sweet soft-bosomed thing,
Would he tabooed as truthless.
Yet what is this she-creature, plumed
And poised in air? Iris-illumed,
She gleams, in borrowed glory,
A portent of modernity,
Out-marvelling strangest phantasy
That chequered classic story.
Fair-locked and winged. So HESIOD drew
The legendary Harpy crew,
The "Spoilers" of old fable;
Maidens, yet monsters, woman-faced,
With iron hearts that had disgraced
The slaughterer of ABEL.
Chimæra dire! The Sirens three,
Ulysses shunned were such as she,
Though robed in simpler raiment.
Is there no modern Nemesis
To deal out to such ghouls as this
Just destiny's repayment?
O modish Moloch of the air!
The eagle swooping from his lair
On bird-world's lesser creatures,
Is spoiler less intent to slay
Than this unsparing Bird of Prey,
With Woman's form and features.
Woman? We know her slavish thrall
To the strange sway despotical
Of that strong figment, Fashion;
But is there nought in this to move
The being born for grace and love
To shamed rebellious passion?
'Tis a she-shape by Mode arrayed!
The dove that coos in verdant shade,
The lark that shrills in ether,
The humming-bird with jewelled wings,—
Ten thousand tiny songful things
Have lent her plume and feather.
They die in hordes that she may fly,
A glittering horror, through the sky.
Their voices, hushed in anguish,
Find no soft echoes in her ears,
Or the vile trade in pangs and fears
Her whims support would languish.
What cares she that those wings were torn
From shuddering things, of plumage shorn
To make her plumes imposing?
That when—for her—bird-mothers die,
Their broods in long-drawn agony
Their eyes—for her—are closing?
What cares she that the woods, bereft
Of feathered denizens, are left
To swarming insect scourges?
On Woman's heart, when once made hard
By Fashion, Pity's gentlest bard
Love's plea all vainly urges.
A Harpy, she, a Bird of Prey,
Who on her slaughtering skyey way,
Beak-striketh and claw-clutcheth.
But Ladies who own not her sway,
Will you not lift white hands to stay
The shameless slaughter which to-day
Your sex's honour toucheth?