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What fear ye brawlers? am not I your Head? On me, me, me, the storm first breaks: I dare

All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear?
Peace! there are those to avenge us and they come :
If not,-myself were like enough, O girls,
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights,

And clad in iron burst the ranks of war,
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause,
Die yet I blame ye not so much for fear;
Six thousand years of fear have made ye that
From which I would redeem ye: but for those
That stir this hubbub-you and you-I know
Your faces there in the crowd-to-morrow morn
We meet to elect new tutors; then shall they
That love their voices more than duty, learn
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame to live
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff,
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame,
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown,

The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time,

Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels,

But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum,

To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour,

For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.'

She, ending, waved her hands: thereat the crowd Muttering, dissolved: then with a smile, that look'd A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff

When all the glens are drown'd in azure gloom
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said.

• You have done well and like a gentleman, And like a prince: you have our thanks for all : And you look well too in your woman's dress : Well have you done and like a gentleman.

You have saved our life: we owe you bitter thanks : Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood— Then men had said-but now-What hinders me

To take such bloody vengeance on you both?

Yet since our father-Wasps in the wholesome hive,

You would-be quenchers of the light to be,

Barbarians, grosser than your native bears-
O would I had his sceptre for one hour!

You that have dared to break our bound, and gull'd

Our tutors, wrong'd and lied and thwarted us—

I wed with thee! I bound by precontract

Your bride, your bondslave! not tho' all the gold
That veins the world were pack'd to make your crown,

And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir,

Your falsehood and your face are loathsome to us :

I trample on your offers and on you:

Begone we will not look upon you more.

Here, push them out at gates.'

In wrath she spake.

Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough
Bent their broad faces toward us and address'd
Their motion: twice I sought to plead my cause,

But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands,

The weight of destiny: so from her face

They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' the court, And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates.

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty mound Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard The voices murmuring; till upon my spirits Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy,

Which I shook off, for I was young, and one

To whom the shadow of all mischance but came

As night to him that sitting on a hill

Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun,

Set into sunrise: then we moved away.

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Two from the palace' I.

The second two: they wait,' he said, ‘pass on ;

His Highness wakes:' and one, that clash'd in arms

By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led
Threading the soldier-city, until we heard

The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent
Whispers of war.

Entering, the sudden light

Dazed me half-blind: I stood and seem'd to hear,

As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes

A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies,

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