VII.
Ambition was an alien word,
Which Mildred faintly understood;
Its poisoned breathing had not blurred
The whiteness of her womanhood,
Nor had its blatant trumpet stirred
To quicker pulse her heart content.
In social tasks and home employ,
She did not question what it meant;
But bore her woman's lot with joy
And sweetness, wheresoe'er she went.
If ever with unconscious thrill
It touched her, in some vagrant dream,
She only wished that God would fill
With larger tide the goodly stream
That flowed beside her, strong and still.
She knew that love was more than fame,
And happy conscience more than love;—
Far off and wild, the wings of flame!
Close by, the pinions of the dove
That hovered white above her name!
She honored Philip as a man,
And joyed in his supreme estate;
But never dreamed that under ban
She lives who never can be great,
Or chieftain of a crowd or clan.
The public eye was like a knife
That pierced and plagued her shrinking heart.
To be a woman, and a wife,
With privilege to dwell apart,
And hold unseen her modest life—
Alike from praise and blame aloof,
And free to live and move in peace
Beneath love's consecrated roof—
Was boon so great she could not cease
Her thanks for the divine behoof.
Black turns to brown and blue to blight
Beneath the blemish of the sun;
And e'en the spotless robe of white,
Worn overlong, grows dim and dun
Through the strange alchemy of light.
Nor wives nor maidens, weak or brave,
Can stand and face the public stare,
And win the plaudits that they crave,
And stem the hisses that they dare,
And modest truth and beauty save.