Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/68

 A woman of the race that looks upon

The sculptured emblems of captivity

Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son,

And none shall know the worth of liberty.

Am I seditious? Nay, then, I will keep

My lesson for your dames when next they steal

On tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleep

Securely, and dream well: we wish your weal.

Why, what vain prattle? But my heart is sore

With thinking of the emptiness of things,

And these Athenians, treacherous to the core,

Who hung on Pericles with flatterings.

I would, indeed, I were a little child,

Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sands

In far Miletus, where the airs blow mild,

And countless looms throb under busy hands.

The busy hand must calm the busy thought,

And labor cool the passions of the hour;

To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought,

What signifies the party last in power?

But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophers

Who reason on the nature of the soul,

And all the vain array of orators,

Who strive to hold the people in control;

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