If I had been reared as others have,— With but a tithe of these looks, which came From my reckless mother, now in her grave, And the father who grudged me even his name,— Why, I should have station and tender care, Should ruin men in the high-bred way, Passionless, smiling at their despair, And marrying where my vantage lay. As it is, I must have love and dress, Jewelled trinkets, and costly food, For I was born for plenteousness, Music and flowers, and all things good. To that same father I owe some thanks, Seeing, at least, that blood will tell, And keep me ever above the ranks Of those who wallow where they fell. True, there are weary, weary days In the great hotel where I make my lair, Where I meet the men with their brutal praise, Or answer the women, stare for stare. ’Tis an even fight, and I’ll carry it through,— Pit them against me, great and small: I grant no quarter, nor would I sue For grace to the softest of them all. I cannot remember half the men Whose sin has tangled them in my toils,— All are alike before me then, Part of my easily conquered spoils: Tall or short, and dark or fair, Rich or famous, haughty or fond, There are few, I find, who will not forswear The lover’s oath and the wedding bond. Fools! what is it that drives them on With their perjured lips on poison fed; Vain of themselves, and cruel as stone, How should they be so cheaply led? Surely they know me as I am,— Only a cuckoo, at the best, Watching, careless of hate and shame, To crouch myself in another’s nest. But the women,—how they flutter and flout, The stupid, terribly virtuous wives, If I but chance to move about Or enter within their bustling hives! Buz! buz! in the scandalous gatherings, When a strange queen lights amid their throng, And their tongues have a thousand angry stings To send her travelling, right or wrong. Well, the earth is wide and open to all, And money and men are everywhere, And, as I roam, ’twill ill befall If I do not gain my lawful share: One drops off; but another will come With as light a head and heavy a purse; So long as I have the world for a home, I’ll take my fortune, better or worse! SPOKEN AT SEA. THE LOG-BOOK OF THE STEAMSHIP VIRGINIA. Twelve hundred miles and more From the stormy English shore, All aright, the seventh night, On her course our vessel bore. Her lantern shone ahead, And the green lamp and the red To starboard and to larboard Shot their light. Close on the midnight call What a mist began to fall, And to hide the ocean wide, And to wrap us in a pall! Beneath its folds we past: Hidden were shroud and mast, And faces, in near places Side by side.