For I am driven by an awful Law. See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me, And carves me like a chisel at my heart. 'T is stronger than the woman or the man; 'T is greater than all torment or delight; 'T is mightier than the marble or the flesh. Obedient be the sculptor and the stone! Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all The pangs that woman ever bore for man; Thine I elect to be, denying them; Thine I elect to be, defying them; Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them; And being thine forever, bless I them! Pygmalion! Take me from my pedestal, And set me lower--lower, Love!--that I May be a woman, and look up to thee; And looking, longing, loving, give and take The human kisses worth the worst that thou By thine own nature shalt inflict on me. PART OF THE PRICE. Take back, my friend, the gifts once given. No fairer find I this side Heaven With which to bless thee, than thine own Resource of blessing. Mine alone To render what is mine to lose. No niggard am I with it. Choose! Lavish, I keep not any part Of that great price within my heart. Wilt thou the quiet comfort have? Thine be it, daily, to the grave! The courage, shining down from one Whose answering eyes put out the sun? The tenderness that touched the nerve Like music? Oh, I bid these serve Thee, soothe thee, watchful of thy need While mine is unattended; feed Thy heart while mine goes famished. Glad, I give the dearest thing I had. Impoverished, can I find or spare Aught else to thee of rich or rare? Sweet thoughts that through the soul do sing, And deeds like loving hands that cling, And loyal faith--a sentry--nigh, And prayers all rose-clouds hovering high? Nay, nay; I keep not any. Hold The wealth I leave with fingers cold And trembling in thine own. One thing Alone I do deny to bring And give again to thee. Not now, Nor ever, Dear, shalt thou learn how To wrest it from me. Test thy strength! By the world's measures, height or length-- Too weak art thou, too weak to gain, By sleight of tenderness or snatch of pain --At thine own most or least--to take from me Mine own ideal lost--and saved--of thee. EURYDICE. _Listening._ A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES. I. As sentient as a wedding-bell, The vibrant air throbs calling her Whose eager body, earwise curved, Leans listening at the heart of hell. She is one nerve of hearing, strained To love and suffer, hope and fear-- Thus, hearkening for her Love, she waits, Whom no man's daring heart has gained. II. Oh, to be sound to such an ear! Song, carol, vesper, comfort near, Sweet words, at sweetest, whispered low, Or dearer silence, happiest so. By little languages of love Her finer audience to prove; A tenderness untried, to fit To soul and sense so exquisite; The blessed Orpheus to be At last, to such Eurydice! * * * * * III.