Mates

It boots not to retrace the path    To ages dim and hoar,

When Man, at the domestic hearth,    First learned the art of war,

And—since in battle one must fall— Held his defeated spouse in thrall,    That she should fight no more;

And thereby doomed to sleep and sloth Strength that in action strengthened both.

It boots not when the better day    First showed a glint of morn,

Nor whose the eye that, in its ray,    Saw Woman's chains outworn;

Nor which was first and which was last When savage rivalry was past    And chivalry was born;

Enough for us that, free or pent,

Her primal treasure was misspent.

The waxing noontide sees them now    Joint sovereigns of the land,

No trace upon the gentler brow    Of the old helot brand.

Consenting that the right is right,

They walk as comrades—or they might—    For ever hand in hand.

Yet still a stronger leads and drags,

And still a weaker leans and lags.

Because we reap what we have sown,    And are as we were bred;

Because one passion, overgrown,    Since so long overfed,

Still works confusion to the scheme Whereof both man and woman dream.    'T'is the unnumbered dead That laid it on him for a curse,

And her, its immemorial nurse.

But, with these tyrants in the dust,    Why should their ghosts hold sway?

Cut the long entail of their lust,    Heirs of a cleaner day!

Lift the dead hand from living mind,

Break the old spells that bind and blind,    O Woman, far astray!

And march with Man the open road Without a fetter or a load.

Our pioneer brothers can discern    The sunlit heights around;

We, that should likewise look and learn,    Keep eyes upon the ground And drug our feebleness with sweets When needing tonic of strong meats;    And all our ways surround With tangling trifles, gaud and toy,

That mock us with the name of joy.

What brains these fragile webs enmesh!    What soaring thought they tie!

What energies of soul and flesh    They still or stultify!

What wasted riches of the mind,

What wealth of genius, dumb and blind,    In shop and workroom lie,

While the great realms of life are stored With such vast mystery unexplored!

Where were the sciences and arts    When men went plumed and curled?

Where were the brains, the hands, the hearts,    That now subdue the world— The March of Progress, straight and true— When men wore coats of every hue?    In childish swaddlings furled,

Their strength lay latent and unknown,

As ineffectual as our own.

Freed from this complicated coil    By mere vainglory spun,

Uprooted from this fruitless soil,    Unfed by rain or sun,

Where sleep the germs of noble deeds In still unfructifying seeds,    Or leafage scarce begun— This ash-heap or the poor and small That chokes the greatness in us all— Uplifted to the light—the place    Where Man his manhood found When tyranny of silk and lace    No longer held him bound;

With eyes, from Fashion's witchcraft clear,

For Beauty, simple and sincere,    And, unbeguiled by sound Of siren wooings, quiet ears For the high message that he hears:

The swelling call to loftier life    That, like a distant bell,

Chimes through the traffic and the strife    Of those who buy and sell;

Through camp and temple, field and street,

The market where we game and cheat,    The home wherein we dwell:— Here should we stand, as strong, as free,

For splendid enterprise as he.

To him no flowering parasite    That only sucks and clings To drain and enervate and blight,    But impulse to his wings;

His mate in passion, mate in power,

His soul's wife, that for marriage dower    Exhaustless treasure brings— The daily bread, the daily spur,

The day's reward for him—and her.

Like woodland creatures, that have willed    To pair by Nature's plan,

A woman finished and fulfilled    And a completed man;

To run together and abreast,

And side by side to fight or rest,    As when the world began;

Each bound to other, yet both free . . . .    It is not, but it ought to be.