Then did the roar of guns grow faint, For peaceful visions rose between Of golden harvests, groves of green, And children glad in unrestraint; And by a quiet cottage door A maiden stood, and evening’s flame Lit up her face, which was the same I oft in dreams had seen before. And now these pictures seek me here, And in my mind throng ceaselessly; I shut my eyes, and yet I see Them not less animate and clear,— And find the maid of my idea An image of thyself, Maria!” Embarrassed then replied Marie: “How blest of fortune is your sex! No chains of destiny can vex Your strength, born only to be free; And danger’s spell, and honor’s throne,— Yea, earth and heaven, are yours alone. But woman’s destiny is sealed As man’s appendage to his life, A bandage on his wounds in strife, Forgotten when they once are healed. She is the sacrifice, but he The flame that soars, and shines afar.— My sire fell battling for the Czar; My mother’s face can memory But dimly trace, and here her child In solitude grew strong and wild Within these halls, without caress, Where worship serfs, if in each whim Their master find they humor him, The idol of their wretchedness. The noble soul must grow ashamed Of life so willing to be tamed. Hast thou seen roam the steppe’s vast space Our beautiful, wild charger race? Bold as the chief, fleet like the doe, It serves and knows no master’s will, But pricks its ear, and, standing still, Scents danger in the winds that blow, Then sudden in a cloud of dust It darts away from its mistrust,— Fights all the foes it ever had With hoof unshod, chafes, or is glad. ‘How blest ye children of the plains, How sweet and free your green domains?’ So have I cried and bid them stay, Whenever on my Tartar steed I have approached with careful speed Their throng, and myriad-answering neigh. Obeying not with scornful eye They looked at us, and passed us by. Intolerable then became These halls, so endlessly the same. Then zealously I won the skill To brave the wolves upon the hill, The vultures in their native air, And rescued often from the bear A life before of little worth. Alas! although we strive from birth, We can not, Nature, thwart thy will. Be it a throne she sits upon, As peasant maid or Amazon, Thy woman is a woman still, A withering vine if not upheld, A being with its half withheld: No unshared joy can she possess, For twin-born is her happiness. Within my heart there ever beats A pain, yet sweeter borne than not, A yearning for I know not what, So grievous, yet so full of sweets. It has no limits, has no aim: It is as if with wings it came And bore me upward from the base And groveling earth to yonder space,