ple the forlorn?

I cannot live by rote and rule; I was not born a slave
To narrow fancies; I must feel, although a husband rave!

I cannot choose my friends because I know them rich, or great;
My heart elects the noble,--what cares love for wealth or state?

Very lovely are my pictures, saints and angels throng my hall--
But with shame my cheek is flushing, and my quivering lashes fall:

Can I gaze on pictured actions, daring deeds, and emprise high,
And not feel my degradation while these fetters round me lie?

Once the Poet came to see me, but it gave me nought but pain;
I was glad to see the Gifted go, ne'er to return again.

For my husband scorning told me: 'True, his lines were very sweet,
But his clothes, so worn and seedy--scarce for me acquaintance meet!

Artists, poets, men of genius, truly should be better paid,
But not holding our position, cannot be our friends,' he said.

'As gentlemen to meet them were a very curious thing;
They were happier in their garrets--there let them sigh or sing.

There were Travers and De Courcy--could he ask them home to dine,
At the risk of meeting truly such strange fellows o'er their wine?'

Then he said, 'My cheeks were peachy, lips were coral, curls were gold,
But he liked them braided crown-like, and with pearls and diamonds
rolled.

I was once a little peasant; now I stood a jewelled queen--
Fitter that a calmer presence in his stately wife were seen!'

Then he gave a gorgeous card-case; set with rubies, Roman gold,
Handed me a paper with it, strands of pearls around it rolled;

Names of all his wife should visit I would find upon the roll:--
Found I none I loved within it--not one friend upon the scroll!

And my mother, God forgive me! I was glad to see her go,
Ere the current of her loving heart had turned like mine to snow.

Must I still seem fair and stately, choking down my bosom's strife,
Because 'all deep emotions were unseemly in his wife'?

Must I gasp 'neath diamonds' glitter--walk in lustrous silken sheen--
Leaving those I love in anguish while I play some haughty scene?

I am choking! closer round me crowds convention's stifling vault--
Every meanness's called a virtue--every virtue deemed a fault!

Every generous thought is scandal; every noble deed is crime;
Every feeling's wrapped in fiction, and truth only lives in rhyme!

No;--I am not fashion's minion,--I am