Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/193

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AURORA LEIGH.
Until the day's out and the labour done;Then bring your gauges. If the day's work's scant,Why, call it scant; affect no compromise;And, in that we have nobly striven at least,Deal with us nobly, women though we be,And honour us with truth, if not with praise.
My ballads prospered; but the ballad's raceIs rapid for a poet who bears weightsOf thought and golden image. He can standLike Atlas, in the sonnet,—and supportHis own heavens pregnant with dynastic stars;But then he must stand still, nor take a step.
In that descriptive poem called 'The Hills,'The prospects were too far and indistinct.'Tis true my critics said, 'A fine view, that!'The public scarcely cared to climb the bookFor even the finest; and the public's right,A tree's mere firewood, unless humanised;Which well the Greeks knew, when they stirred the barkWith close-pressed bosoms of subsiding nymphs,And made the forest-rivers garrulousWith babble of gods. For us, we are called to markA still more intimate humanityIn this inferior nature,—or, ourselves,Must fall like dead leaves trodden underfootBy veritabler artists. Earth, shut upBy Adam, like a fakir in a boxLeft too long buried, remained stiff and dry,
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