Whither away, Swallow, Whither away? Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest Not one short day? Wilt thou—as if thou human wert—go forth And wanton far from them who love thee best? Whither away? HYPATIA. ’Tis fifteen hundred years, you say, Since that fair teacher died In learnéd Alexandria By the stone altar’s side:— The wild monks slew her, as she lay At the feet of the Crucified. Yet in a prairie-town, one night, I found her lecture-hall, Where bench and dais stood aright, And statues graced the wall, And pendent brazen lamps the light Of classic days let fall. A throng that watched the speaker’s face, And on her accents hung, Was gathered there: the strength, the grace Of lands where life is young Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race From old Pelasgia sprung. No civic crown the sibyl wore, Nor academic tire, But shining skirts, that trailed the floor And made her stature higher; A written scroll the lecturn bore, And flowers bloomed anigh her. The wealth her honeyed speech had won Adorned her in our sight; The silkworm for her sake had spun His cincture, day and night; With broider-work and Honiton Her open sleeves were bright. But still Hypatia’s self I knew, And saw, with dreamy wonder, The form of her whom Cyril slew (See Kingsley’s novel, yonder) Some fifteen centuries since, ’tis true, And half a world asunder. Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise, With one loose tress down-flowing; Apollo’s rapture lit her eyes, His utterance bestowing,— A silver flute’s clear harmonies On which a god was blowing. Yet not of Plato’s sounding spheres, And universal Pan, She spoke; but searched historic years, The sisterhood to scan Of women,—girt with ills and fears,— Slaves to the tyrant, Man. Their crosiered banner she unfurled, And onward pushed her quest Through golden ages of a world By their deliverance blest:— At all who stay their hands she hurled Defiance from her breast. I saw her burning words infuse A warmth through many a heart, As still, in bright successive views, She drew her sex’s part; Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse, Of work, and song, and art. Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say The later is the less? Our Sappho sang but yesterday, Of whom two climes confess Heaven’s flame within her wore away Her earthly loveliness. So let thy wild heart ripple on, Brave girl, through vale and city! Spare, of its listless moments, one To this, thy poet’s ditty; Nor long forbear, when all is done, Thine own sweet self to pity.