In all these things, Self stands behind the scenes, And men see not the force that moves them on. But in the boudoir, ’tis enthroned supreme, And does not care to hide the cloven foot. In every home, the marble and the log, In mammoth trunks, and chests of simple pine, In rosewood cases, and the pasteboard box, Are crammed the slaves of Self, to poor and rich, The clothes that, fine or common, feed its pride. The velvets, satins, silken _robes de flamme_, The worsted, calico, and homespun stripe; The Guipure, Valenciennes, and Appliqué, The gimp, galloon, and shallow bias frill; The Talmas, Arabs, basques and paletots, The coarse plaid shawl, the hood, and woollen scarf; The chignons, chatelaines, and plaited braids, The beaded net, and tight-screwed knot of hair; The dazzling jewels, ranged in season sets, The pinchbeck, gilt, and waxen trinketry; The tinted boots, half-way the silken hose, The shoes that tie o’er cotton blue-and-white; The corset laced to hasten ready Death, The leather belt, that cuts the broad, thick waist; The bosom heaving only waves of wire, The bosom, cotton stuffed, beyond all shape; The belladonna sparkling in the eye, The finger tip, and water without soap; The rouge and carmine for the city cheeks, The berries’ ruddy juice for rural ones; The pearly powder, with its poisoned dust, The cup of flour to ghastlify the face;-- All these, and thousand fixtures none can count, Man’s vanity, and woman’s love of show, Appropriate for Self. And such is Man! The puzzle of the Universe! Within, A giant to himself; without, a babe. A giant that we cannot but despise, A babe we must admire for his power. His mind, Promethean spark divine, can pierce The shadowy Past, and gaze in rapturous awe Upon the birth of worlds, that from the Mind Eternal spring to blazing entities, And whirl their radiant orbs through cooling space; Or place the earth beneath its curious ken, And with an “Open Sesame!” descend Into its rocky chambers, there unfold The stone archives, and read their graven truths-- Earth’s history written by itself therein-- How age by age, a globe of liquid fire, It dimmer grew, and dark and stiff, And drying, took a rough, uneven face; Above the wave, the mountain’s smoking top Appeared, beneath it gaped the valley’s gorge; But smoking still, it stood a gloomy globe, Naked and without life. And how the trees And herbs their robes of foliage brought; their form And life adapted to their heated bed. And how a stream of animation poured Upon its face, when ready to sustain; Great beasts who trod the cindered soil unscathed, And tramped the fervid plains with unscorched soles. Great fish whose hardened fins hot waters churned