--Ah! sir, our worshipped posture we perchance Shall not abandon, though we see not how, Being to that lamp-post fixed, we may advance Beside our lords in any real degree, Unless we move: and to advance is now A sovereign need, think more than we. XXVII. --So push you out of harbour in small craft, With little seamanship; and comes a gale, The world will laugh, the world has often laughed, Lady, to see how bold when skies are blue, When black winds churn the deeps how panic-pale, How swift to the old nest fly you! XXVIII. --What thinks your friend, kind sir? We have escaped But partly that old half-tamed wild beast’s paw Whereunder woman, the weak thing, was shaped: Men too have known the cramping enemy In grim brute force, whom force of brain shall awe: Him our deliverer, await we! XXIX. --Delusions are with eloquence endowed, And yours might pluck an angel from the spheres To play in this revolt whereto you are vowed, Deliverer, lady! but like summer dew O’er fields that crack for rain your friends drop tears, Who see the awakening for you. XXX. --Is he our friend, there silent? he weeps not. O sir, delusion mounting like a sun On a mind blank as the white wife of Lot, Giving it warmth and movement! if this be Delusion, think of what thereby was won For men, and dream of what win we. XXXI. --Lady, the destiny of minor powers, Who would recast us, is but to convulse: You enter on a strife that frets and sours; You can but win sick disappointment’s hue; And simply an accelerated pulse, Some tonic you have drunk moves you. XXXII. --Thinks your friend so? Good sir, your wit is bright But wit that strives to speak the popular voice, Puts on its nightcap and puts out its light; Curfew, would seem your conqueror’s decree To women likewise: and we have no choice Save darkness or rebellion, we! XXXIII. --A plain safe intermediate way is cleft By reason foiling passion: you that rave Of mad alternatives to right and left Echo the tempter, madam: and ’tis due Unto your sex to shun it as the grave, This later apple offered you. XXXIV. --This apple is not ripe, it is not sweet; Nor rosy, sir, nor golden: eye and mouth Are little wooed by it; yet we would eat: We are somewhat tired of Eden, is our plea: We have thirsted long: this apple suits our drouth: ’Tis good for men to halve, think we. XXXV. --But say, what seek you, madam? ’Tis enough That you should have dominion o’er the springs Domestic and man’s heart: those ways, how rough, How vile, outside the stately avenue Where you walk sheltered by your angel’s wings, Are happily unknown to you. XXXVI.