Classic Works from Women Writers

by Editors of Canterbury Classics

And in her lap her bloody Cain new born,

  The weeping Imp oft looks her in the face,

  Bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn;

  His Mother sighs to think of Paradise,

  And how she lost her bliss, to be more wise,

  Believing him that was, and is, Father of lyes.

  13

  Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice,

  Fruits of the Earth and Fatlings each do bring,

  On Abels gift the fire descends from Skies,

  But no such sign on false Cain’s offering;

  With sullen hateful looks he goes his wayes.

  Hath thousand thoughts to end his brothers dayes,

  Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise.

  14

  There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he thinks,

  His brother comes, then acts his fratricide.

  The Virgin Earth of blood her first draught drinks,

  But since that time she often hath been cloy’d;

  The wretch with ghastly face and dreadful mind,

  Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind,

  Though none on Earth but kindred near then could he find.

  15

  Who fancies not his looks now at the Barr,

  His face like death, his heart with horror fraught,

  Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr,

  When deep despair with wish of life hath fought,

  Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes,

  A Vagabond to Land of Nod he goes.

  A City builds, that wals might him secure from foes.

  16

  Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages.

  Their long descent, how nephews sons they saw,

  The starry observations of those Sages,

  And how their precepts to their sons were law,

  How Adam sigh’d to see his Progeny,

  Cloath’d all in his black, sinful Livery,

  Who neither guilt not yet the punishment could fly.

  17

  Our Life compare we with their length of dayes

  Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive?

  And though thus short, we shorten many wayes,

  Living so little while we are alive;

  In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight

  So unawares comes on perpetual night,

  And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight.

  18

  When I behold the heavens as in their prime,

  And then the earth (though old) still clad in green,

  The stones and trees, insensible of time,

  Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen;

  If winter come, and greenness then do fade,

  A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made;

  But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he’s laid.

  19

  By birth more noble than those creatures all,

  Yet seems by nature and by custom curs’d,

  No sooner born, but grief and care makes fall

  That state obliterate he had at first:

  Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again

  Nor habitations long their names retain,

  But in oblivion to the final day remain.

  20

  Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth

  Because their beauty and their strength last longer

  Shall I wish there, or never to had birth,

  Because they’re bigger and their bodyes stronger?

  Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye,

  And when unmade, so ever shall they lye,

  But man was made for endless immortality.

  21

  Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm

  Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side,

  Where gliding streams the Rocks did overwhelm;

  A lonely place, with pleasures dignifi’d.

  I once that lov’d the shady woods so well,

  Now thought the rivers did the trees excel,

  And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

  22

  While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye,

  Which to the long’d-for Ocean held its course,

  I markt, nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye

  Could hinder ought but still augment its force:

  O happy Flood, quoth I, that holds thy race

  Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

  Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

  23

  Nor is’t enough that thou alone may’st slide,

  But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet,

  So hand in hand along with thee they glide

  To Thetis house, where all imbrace and greet:

  Thou Emblem true of what I count the best,

  O could I lead my Rivolets to rest,

  So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.

  24

  Ye Fish which in this liquid Region ’bide

  That for each season have your habitation,

  Now salt, now fresh where you think best to glide

  To unknown coasts to give a visitation,

  In Lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry,

  So Nature taught, and yet you know not why,

  You watry folk that know not your felicity.

  25

  Look how the wantons frisk to tast the air,

  Then to the colder bottome streight they dive,

  Eftsoon to Neptun’s glassy Hall repair

  To see what trade they, great ones, there do drive,

  Who forrage o’re the spacious sea-green field,

  And take the trembling prey before it yield,

  Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield.

  26

  While musing thus with contemplation fed,

  And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain,

  The sweet-tongu’d Philomel percht ore my head,

  And chanted forth a most melodious strain

  Which rapt me so with wonder and delight,

  I judg’d my hearing better than my sight,

  And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

  27

  O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares,

  That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,

  Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares

  To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm

  Thy clothes ne’er wear, thy meat is every where,

  Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer,

  Reminds not what is past, nor whats to come dost fear.

  28

  The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent,

  Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew,

  So each one tunes his pretty instrument,

  And warbling out the old, begin anew,

  And thus they pass their youth in summer season,

  Then follow thee into a better Region,

  Where winter’s never felt by that sweet airy legion.

  29

  Man at the best a creature frail and vain,

  In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak,

  Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain,

  Each storm his state, his mind, his body break,

  From some of these he never finds cessation,

  But day or night, within, without, vexation,

  Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near’st Relation.

  30

  And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain,

  This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,

  This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain,

  Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow;

  Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation,

  In weight, in frequency and long duration

  Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

  31

  The Mari
ner that on smooth waves doth glide,

  Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease,

  As if he had command of wind and tide,

  And now becomes great Master of the seas;

  But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport,

  And makes him long for a more quiet port,

  Which ’gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

  32

  So he that faileth in this world of pleasure,

  Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th’ sowre,

  That’s full of friends, of honour and of treasure,

  Fond fool, he takes this earth ev’n for heav’ns bower,

  But sad affliction comes and makes him see

  Here’s neither honour, wealth, nor safety;

  Only above is found all with security.

  33

  O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things,

  That draws oblivions curtains over kings,

  Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,

  Their names without a Record are forgot,

  Their parts, their ports, their pomp’s all laid in th’ dust.

  Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape times rust;

  But he whose name is grav’d in the white stone

  Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

  A CALL

  Grace MacGowan Cooke

  A boy in an unnaturally clean, country-laundered collar walked down a long white road. He scuffed the dust up wantonly, for he wished to veil the all-too-brilliant polish of his cowhide shoes. Also the memory of the whiteness and slipperiness of his collar oppressed him. He was fain to look like one accustomed to social diversions, a man hurried from hall to hall of pleasure, without time between to change collar or polish boot. He stooped and rubbed a crumb of earth on his overfresh neck-linen.

  This did not long sustain his drooping spirit. He was mentally adrift upon the “Hints and Helps to Young Men in Business and Social Relations,” which had suggested to him his present enterprise, when the appearance of a second youth, taller and broader than himself, with a shock of light curling hair and a crop of freckles that advertised a rich soil, threw him a lifeline. He put his thumbs to his lips and whistled in a peculiarly ear-splitting way. The two boys had sat on the same bench at Sunday-school not three hours before; yet what a change had come over the world for one of them since then!

  “Hello! Where you goin’, Ab?” asked the newcomer, gruffly.

  “Callin’,” replied the boy in the collar, laconically, but with carefully averted gaze.

  “On the girls?” inquired the other, awestruck. In Mount Pisgah you saw the girls home from night church, socials, or parties; you could hang over the gate; and you might walk with a girl in the cemetery of a Sunday afternoon; but to ring a front-door bell and ask for Miss Heart’s Desire one must have been in long trousers at least three years—and the two boys confronted in the dusty road had worn these dignifying garments barely six months.

  “Girls,” said Abner, loftily; “I don’t know about girls—I’m just going to call on one girl—Champe Claiborne.” He marched on as though the conversation was at an end; but Ross hung upon his flank. Ross and Champe were neighbors, comrades in all sorts of mischief; he was in doubt whether to halt Abner and pummel him, or propose to enlist under his banner.

  “Do you reckon you could?” he debated, trotting along by the irresponsive Jilton boy.

  “Run home to your mother,” growled the originator of the plan, savagely. “You ain’t old enough to call on girls; anybody can see that; but I am, and I’m going to call on Champe Claiborne.”

  Again the name acted as a spur on Ross. “With your collar and boots all dirty?” he jeered. “They won’t know you’re callin’.”

  The boy in the road stopped short in his dusty tracks. He was an intense creature, and he whitened at the tragic insinuation, longing for the wholesome stay and companionship of freckle-faced Ross. “I put the dirt on o’ purpose so’s to look kind of careless,” he half whispered, in an agony of doubt. “S’pose I’d better go into your house and try to wash it off? Reckon your mother would let me?”

  “I’ve got two clean collars,” announced the other boy, proudly generous. “I’ll lend you one. You can put it on while I’m getting ready. I’ll tell mother that we’re just stepping out to do a little calling on the girls.”

  Here was an ally worthy of the cause. Abner welcomed him, in spite of certain jealous twinges. He reflected with satisfaction that there were two Claiborne girls, and though Alicia was so stiff and prim that no boy would ever think of calling on her, there was still the hope that she might draw Ross’s fire, and leave him, Abner, to make the numerous remarks he had stored up in his mind from “Hints and Helps to Young Men in Social and Business Relations” to Champe alone.

  Mrs. Pryor received them with the easy-going kindness of the mother of one son. She followed them into the dining-room to kiss and feed him, with an absent “Howdy, Abner; how’s your mother?”

  Abner, big with the importance of their mutual intention, inclined his head stiffly and looked toward Ross for explanation. He trembled a little, but it was with delight, as he anticipated the effect of the speech Ross had outlined. But it did not come.

  “I’m not hungry, mother,” was the revised edition which the freckle-faced boy offered to the maternal ear. “I—we are going over to Mr. Claiborne’s—on—er—on an errand for Abner’s father.”

  The black-eyed boy looked reproach as they clattered up the stairs to Ross’s room, where the clean collar was produced and a small stock of ties.

  “You’d wear a necktie—wouldn’t you?” Ross asked, spreading them upon the bureau-top.

  “Yes. But make it fall carelessly over your shirt-front,” advised the student of Hints and Helps. “Your collar is miles too big for me. Say! I’ve got a wad of white chewing-gum; would you flat it out and stick it over the collar button? Maybe that would fill up some. You kick my foot if you see me turning my head so’s to knock it off.”

  “Better button up your vest,” cautioned Ross, laboring with the “careless” fall of his tie.

  “Huh-uh! I want ‘that easy air which presupposes familiarity with society’—that’s what it says in my book,” objected Abner.

  “Sure!” Ross returned to his more familiar jeering attitude. “Loosen up all your clothes, then. Why don’t you untie your shoes? Flop a sock down over one of ’em—that looks ‘easy’ all right.”

  Abner buttoned his vest. “It gives a man lots of confidence to know he’s good-looking,” he remarked, taking all the room in front of the mirror.

  Ross, at the wash-stand soaking his hair to get the curl out of it, grumbled some unintelligible response. The two boys went down the stairs with tremulous hearts.

  “Why, you’ve put on another clean shirt, Rossie!” Mrs. Pryor called from her chair—mothers’ eyes can see so far! “Well—don’t get into any dirty play and soil it.” The boys walked in silence—but it was a pregnant silence; for as the roof of the Claiborne house began to peer above the crest of the hill, Ross plumped down on a stone and announced, “I ain’t goin’.”

  “Come on,” urged the black-eyed boy. “It’ll be fun—and everybody will respect us more. Champe won’t throw rocks at us in recess-time, after we’ve called on her. She couldn’t.”

  “Called!” grunted Ross. “I couldn’t make a call any more than a cow. What’d I say? What’d I do? I can behave all right when you just go to people’s houses—but a call!”

  Abner hesitated. Should he give away his brilliant inside information, drawn from the “Hints and Helps” book, and be rivalled in the glory of his manners and bearing? Why should he not pass on alone, perfectly composed, and reap the field of glory unsupported? His knees gave way and he sat down without intending it.

  “Don’t you tell anybody and I’ll put you on to exactly what grown-up gentlemen say and do when they go calling on the girls,” he began.

  “Fire awa
y,” retorted Ross, gloomily. “Nobody will find out from me. Dead men tell no tales. If I’m fool enough to go, I don’t expect to come out of it alive.”

  Abner rose, white and shaking, and thrusting three fingers into the buttoning of his vest, extending the other hand like an orator, proceeded to instruct the freckled, perspiring disciple at his feet.

  “ ‘Hang your hat on the rack, or give it to a servant.’ ” Ross nodded intelligently. He could do that.

  “ ‘Let your legs be gracefully disposed, one hand on the knee, the other—’ ”

  Abner came to an unhappy pause. “I forget what a fellow does with the other hand. Might stick it in your pocket, loudly, or expectorate on the carpet. Indulge in little frivolity. Let a rich stream of conversation flow.”

  Ross mentally dug within himself for sources of rich streams of conversation. He found a dry soil. “What you goin’ to talk about?” he demanded, fretfully. “I won’t go a step farther till I know what I’m goin’ to say when I get there.”

  Abner began to repeat paragraphs from “Hints and Helps.” “ ‘It is best to remark,’ ” he opened, in an unnatural voice, “‘How well you are looking!’ although fulsome compliments should be avoided. When seated ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.’ ”

  “What’s a composer?” inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in his mind.

  “A man that makes up music. Don’t butt in that way; you put me all out—‘composer is. Name yours. Ask her what piece of music she likes best. Name yours. If the lady is musical, here ask her to play or sing.’ ”

  This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the repetend, “Name yours.”

  “I’m tired already,” he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and fare farther.

  When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.

  “You’re goin’ in first,” asserted Ross, but without conviction. It was his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his father’s old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as he approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the hypnotism of Abner’s scheme.

  “ ‘Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the servant,’ ” quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server.