THE NEW CIRCE.
No islet-kingdom has this fair-haired one,
Of drugs no knowledge, philtres brews not she,
Yet many self-sure men has she undone
By her own ways of pleasant sorcery.
She whirls in no mad dances dervishly,
Nor with incantatory crooning charms
Her hapless slaves, who yet would not be free
While with a conq’ring smile she soothes, disarms,
Born of some slight neglect, their fears, doubts and alarms.
She has no wand nor needs one. Her demesne
Is ev’ry drawing-room. A slender chair
Be-carved and gilt, her throne that any queen
Might wish to sit upon. About her there
They crowd, the subjects of this guileless fair,
Fain for the services she may commend;
Content forever the sweet bonds to wear,—
That even Egypt’s moly cannot rend,—
If she, though loving not, to love them will pretend.
Edward W. Barnard.