Shall we who are about to live, Cry like a clarion on the battle-field? Or weep before 't is fought, the fight to yield? Thou that hast been and yet that art to be Named by our name, that art the First and Last! Womanhood of the future and the past! Thee we salute, below the breath. Oh, give To us the courage of our mystery. ... Pealing, the clock of Time Has struck the Woman's Hour.... We hear it on our knees. For ah, no power Is ours to trip too lightly to the rhyme Of idle words that fan the summer air, Of bounding words that leap the years to come. Ideal of ourselves! We dream and dare. Victuræ salutamus! _Thou_ art dumb. [1] Written for the first commencement at Smith College. THE ERMINE. I read of the ermine to-day, Of the ermine who will not step By the feint of a step in the mire,-- The creature who will not stain Her garment of wild, white fire; Of the dumb, flying, soulless thing (So we with our souls dare to say), The being of sense and of sod, That will not, that will not defile The nature she took from her God. And we, with the souls that we have, Go cheering the hunters on To a prey with that pleading eye. She cannot go into the mud! She can stay like the snow, and die! The hunters come leaping on. She turns like a heart at bay. They do with her as they will. ... O thou who thinkest on this! Stand like a star, and be still, Where the soil oozes under thy feet. Better, ah, better to die Than to take one step in the mire! Oh, blessed to die or to live, With garments of holy fire! UNQUENCHED.[1] I think upon the conquering Greek who ran (Brave was the racer!) that brave race of old-- Swifter than hope his feet that did not tire. Calmer than love the hand which reached that goal; A torch it bore, and cherished to the end, And rescued from the winds the sacred fire. O life the race! O heart the racer! Hush! And listen long enough to learn of him Who sleeps beneath the dust with his desire. Go! shame thy coward weariness, and wail. Who doubles contest, doubles victory. Go! learn to run the race, and carry fire. O Friend! The lip is brave, the heart is weak. Stay near. The runner faints--the torch falls pale. Save me the flame that mounteth ever higher! Grows it so dark? I lift mine eyes to _thine_; Blazing within them, steadfast, pure, and strong, Against the wind there fights the eternal fire. [1] At the Promethean and other festivals, young men ran with torches or lamps lighted from the sacrificial altar. "In this contest, only he was victorious whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race." THE KING'S IMAGE.