PRAISE OF WOMEN

Translated from Lamartine, by sir Tollemache Sinclair. Loved being of all beings — soul of souls serene, None more than I have lived by thy bright flame unseen, None burning with thy thirst and ne'er appeasing it, Would have given more thee to immortalize by wit. None more desired on the dear soul which he loves best, To concentrate his life not making self his quest. And in a world apart and dwelt in but by thee, To make but for itself its own eternity.

0 women ! mortal angels ! God's creation bright

Sole ray l)y which life gains for one brief moment light,

1 say it at this hour — this hour of truth supreme, As I would have said when I saw gay beauty's beam, My budding heart which felt itself expanding fast. Melted like snow in the dawn's brilliant rays at last, Nought I regret but you in this world — you I greet. That which our human life yields which is sour or sweet, That which makes it burn, which in itself betrays

I know not what bright beam of life's immortal rays,

'Tis only you ! By you all joy is love's gay road,

The shadow of the full delights of heaven's abode.

You are while here below the drop unmixed and pure

Which God let fall from out an angel's cup 'tis sure,

The star which shines in a dark night, like some bright sign.

Alone says where one looks another world does shine,

Sole guarantee in fine, of happiness supreme.

That joy which love from love imbibes on earth's drear scene.

Is not a vain dream made to tempt us, no mere mist

For it exists and ever will on earth exist.

If ever burning with the fire which love devours,

Love, innocence, desire, with beauty, all in fact

Which could from gods their immortality extract.

When on that heart you rest which loves but you alone.

Or when that worn soul sadly sinks with stifled moan.

When that divine fire which in us still feebly burns.

Its flame extinct in you — no more to light returns,

When no heart beats when ours sighs low and mourns its acts.

When no cheek blushes at one's look which it attracts,

When with alarm our conscience, of fell grief the key,

Tells us 'tis thou no longer whom they love, ah ! see.

Then as a spirit exiled from its sphere of birth

Resigns itself and weeps 'mid the sad scenes of earth.

From your steps turning, your eyes bathed in tears, one starts.

To the false joys of here below we yield our hearts,

Some to their mem'ry sacrifice their lives in vain,

Adore an echo false which to call fame they're fain,

The paths of favour some besiege — schemes they contrive,

And seek first at annihilation to arrive.

The shameful cup some empty of vile sensual joy,

And ^\hile they live till death their souls debased employ,

While some accumulating wealth with ardour still,

Collect in mire the dust of gold by their strong will.

My eyes have pierced these shadows of this life which tire

Of these false blessings, none which vulgar minds desire.

Fame, power and pride possessed in turn — each a vain sound.

Have not matched in my heart a sigh of love profound.

Or have destroyed the trace of e"en one sou^■nir^s power,

Nor of my soul disturbed the surface for an hour,

More than the branch's shadow or the clouds which flit,

Trouble the water when they view themselves in it.