I HAVE a friend whose dignity refusesTo smile upon a girl who courts the Muses.He deems the female mind too meanly wroughtTo bear the tension of exalted thought;And views each effort of a woman's penAs an infringement on the rights of men.And though her lyre be tuned to sweetest chords,Contempt is all his answering soul awards.He says that women, in the good old times,Spun wool and flax, instead of spinning rhymes;And, for example, prates of ancient damesWho gloried only in their husband's names,—In presence of their lordly dignityVeiled their heads in meek benignity;That literature, in those Pierian ages,Was cultivated only by the sages;And sighs to think how things have changed since then,When women knew their spheres and men were men.
What think you, sisters, of my gifted friend,Whose self-respect refuses to descendFrom the high standard of the rights of men,To ever read an essay from your pen?Think you 'twere better we should all resignOur humble efforts, and our works consign,En masse, to the devouring flame,—that weMay, peradventure, win his sympathy?Or shall we, at the risk of his disdain,Dare tune our playful lyres to song again?I wait your answer in profound suspense,And tremble lest e'en this should give offence.
