"
* * * * *
* * "O, soft embrace,
And to thy mother dear. O, fragrant breath!
In vain I swathed thy infant limbs, in vain
I gave thee nurture at this breast, and tolled,
Wasted with care. _If ever_, now embrace,
Now clasp thy mother; throw thine arms around
My neck, and join thy cheek, thy lips to mine."
As I look up, I meet the eyes of Beatrice Cenci, Beautiful one! these
woes, even, were less than thine, yet thou seemest to understand them
all. Thy clear, melancholy gaze says, they, at least, had known
moments of bliss, and the tender relations of nature had not been
broken and polluted from the very first. Yes! the gradations of woe
are all but infinite: only good can be infinite.
Certainly the Greeks knew more of real home intercourse and more of
Woman than the Americans. It is in vain to tell me of outward
observances. The poets, the sculptors, always tell the truth. In
proportion as a nation is refined, women _must_ have an ascendency.
It is the law of nature.
Beatrice! thou wert not "fond of life," either, more than those
princesses. Thou wert able to cut it down in the full flower of
beauty, as an offering to _the best_ known to thee.
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