Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.

Edmund Clarence Stedman 1833–1908

Edmund Clarence Stedman

185 Hypatia

’T IS fifteen hundred years, you say,

Since that fair teacher died

In learnèd Alexandria

By the stone altar’s side:—

The wild monks slew her, as she lay

At the feet of the Crucified.

Yet in a prairie-town, one night,

I found her lecture-hall,

Where bench and dais stood aright,

And statues graced the wall,

And pendent brazen lamps the light

Of classic days let fall.

A throng that watched the speaker’s face

And on her accents hung,

Was gathered there: the strength, the grace

Of lands where life is young

Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race

From old Pelasgia sprung.

No civic crown the sibyl wore,

Nor academic tire,

But shining skirts, that trailed the floor

And made her stature higher;

A written scroll the lecturn bore,

And flowers bloomed anigh her.

The wealth her honeyed speech had won

Adorned her in our sight;

The silkworm for her sake had spun

His cincture, day and night;

With broider-work and Honiton

Her open sleeves were bright.

But still Hypatia’s self I knew,

And saw, with dreamy wonder,

The form of her whom Cyril slew

(See Kingsley’s novel, yonder)

Some fifteen centuries since, ’t is true,

And half a world asunder.

Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise,

With one loose tress down-flowing;

Apollo’s rapture lit her eyes,

His utterance bestowing,—

A silver flute’s clear harmonies

On which a god was blowing.

Yet not of Plato’s sounding spheres,

And universal Pan,

She spoke; but searched historic years,

The sisterhood to scan

Of women,—girt with ills and fears,—

Slaves to the tyrant, Man.

Their crosiered banner she unfurled,

And onward pushed her quest

Through golden ages of a world

By their deliverance blest:—

At all who stay their hands she hurled

Defiance from her breast.

I saw her burning words infuse

A warmth through many a heart,

As still, in bright successive views,

She drew her sex’s part;

Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse,

On work, and song, and art.

Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say

The later is the less?

Our Sappho sang but yesterday,

Of whom two climes confess

Heaven’s flame within her wore away

Her earthly loveliness.

So let thy wild heart ripple on,

Brave girl, through vale and city!

Spare, of its listless moments, one

To this, thy poet’s ditty;

Nor long forbear, when all is done,

Thine own sweet self to pity.

The priestess of the Sestian tower,

Whose knight the sea swam over,

Among her votaries’ gifts no flower

Of heart’s-ease could discover:

She died, but in no evil hour,

Who, dying, clasped her lover.

The rose-tree has its perfect life

When the full rose is blown;

Some height of womanhood the wife

Beyond thy dream has known;

Set not thy head and heart at strife

To keep thee from thine own.

Hypatia! thine essence rare

The rarer joy should merit:

Possess thee of the common share

Which lesser souls inherit:

All gods to thee their garlands bear,—

Take one from Love and wear it!