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? * * * * * THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. (_AS SIR JAMES CRICHTON BROWNE SEEMS PROPHETICALLY TO SEE THEM._)