Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 13. THE DEAN'S LADY, by GEORGE CRABBE


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POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 13. THE DEAN'S LADY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Next, to a lady I must bid adieu
Last Line: To yon small cot, a poorly jointured blue.


NEXT, to a LADY I must bid adieu --
Whom some in mirth or malice call a 'Blue.'
There needs no more -- when that same word is said,
The men grow shy, respectful, and afraid;
Save the choice friends who in her colour dress,
And all her praise in words like hers express.
Why should proud man in man that knowledge prize,
Which he affects in woman to despise?
Is he not envious when a lady gains,
In hours of leisure, and with little pains,
What he in many a year with painful toil obtains?
For surely knowledge should not odious grow,
Nor ladies be despised for what they know;
Truth to no sex confined, her friends invites,
And woman, long restrain'd, demands her rights.
Nor should a light and odious name be thrown
On the fair dame who makes that knowledge known --
Who bravely dares the world's sarcastic sneer,
And what she is, is willing to appear.
'And what she is not!' peevish man replies,
His envy owning what his pride denies:
But let him, envious as he is, repair
To this sage Dame, and meet conviction there.
MIRANDA sees her morning levee fill'd
With men, in every art and science skill'd --
Men who have gain'd a name, whom she invites,
Because in men of genius she delights.
To these she puts her questions, that produce
Discussion vivid, and discourse abstruse:
She no opinion for its boldness spares,
But loves to show her audience what she dares;
The creeds of all men she takes leave to sift,
And, quite impartial, turns her own adrift.
Her noble mind, with independent force,
Her Rector questions on his late discourse;
Perplex'd and pain'd, he wishes to retire
From one whom critics, nay, whom crowds, admire --
From her whose faith on no man's dictate leans,
Who her large creed from many a teacher gleans;
Who for herself will judge, debate, decide,
And be her own 'philosopher and guide.'
Why call a lady Blue? It is because;
And therefore all that she desires to know
Is just as much as she can fairly show.
The real knowledge we in secret hide,
It is the counterfeit that makes our pride.
'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing!' --
So sings the Poet, and so let him sing:
But if from little learning danger rose,
I know not who in safety could repose.
The evil rises from our own mistake,
When we our ignorance for knowledge take;
Or when the little that we have, through pride,
And vain poor self-love view'd, is magnified.
Nor is your deepest Azure always free
From these same dangerous calls of vanity.
Yet of the sex are those who never show,
By way of exhibition, what they know.
Their books are read and praised, and so are they,
But all without design, without display.
Is there not One who reads the hearts of men,
And paints them strongly with unrivall'd pen?
All their fierce Passions in her scenes appear,
Terror she bids arise, bids fall the tear;
Looks in the close recesses of the mind,
And gives the finish'd portraits to mankind,
By skill conducted, and to Nature true, --
And yet no man on earth would call JOANNA Blue!
Not so MIRANDA! She is ever prest
To give opinions, and she gives her best.
To these with gentle smile her guests incline,
Who come to hear, improve, applaud, -- and dine.
Her hungry mind on every subject feeds;
She Adam Smith and Dugald Stewart reads;
Locke entertains her, and she wonders why
His famous Essay is consider'd dry.
For her amusement in her vacant hours
Are earths and rocks, and animals and flowers:
She could the farmer at his work assist,
A systematic agriculturist.
Some men, indeed, would curb the female mind,
Nor let us see that they themselves are blind;
But -- thank our stars! -- the liberal times allow,
That all may think, and men have rivals now.
Miranda deems all knowledge might be gain'd --
'But she is idle, nor has much attain'd;
Men are in her deceived; she knows at most
A few light matters, for she scorns to boast.
Her mathematic studies she resign'd --
They did not suit the genius of her mind.
She thought indeed the higher parts sublime,
But then they took a monstrous deal of time!'
Frequent and full the letters she delights
To read in part; she names not him who writes --
But here and there a precious sentence shows,
Telling what literary debts she owes.
Works, yet unprinted, for her judgment come,
'Alas!' she cries, 'and I must seal their doom.
Sworn to be just, the judgment gives me pain --
Ah! why must truth be told, or man be vain?'
Much she has written, and still deigns to write,
But not an effort yet must see the light.
'Cruel!' her friends exclaim; 'unkind, unjust!'
But, no! the envious mass she will not trust;
Content to hear that fame is due to her,
Which on her works the world might not confer --
Content with loud applauses while she lives;
Unfelt the pain the cruel critic gives.
II

P. NOW where the Learned Lady? Doth she live,
Her dinners yet and sentiments to give --
The Dean's wise consort, with the many friends,
From whom she borrows, and to whom she lends
Her precious maxims?
F. Yes, she lives to shed
Her light around her, but her Dean is dead.
Seen her I have, but seldom could I see:
Borrow she could not, could not lend to me.
Yet, I attended, and beheld the tribe
Attending too, whom I will not describe --
Miranda Thomson! Yes, I sometimes found
A seat among a circle so profound;
When all the science of the age combined
Was in that room, and hers the master-mind.
Well I remember the admiring crowd,
Who spoke their wonder and applause aloud;
They strove who highest should her glory raise,
And cramm'd the hungry mind with honied praise --
While she, with grateful hand, a table spread,
The Dean assenting -- but the Dean is dead;
And though her sentiments are still divine,
She asks no more her auditors to dine.
Once from her lips came wisdom; when she spoke,
Her friends in transport or amazement broke.
Now to her dictates there attend but few,
And they expect to meet attention too;
Respect she finds is purchased at some cost,
And deference is withheld, when dinner's lost.
She, once the guide and glory of the place,
Exists between oblivion and disgrace;
Praise once afforded, now, -- they say not why,
They dare not say it -- fickle men deny;
That buzz of fame a new Minerva cheers,
Which our deserted queen no longer hears.
Old, but not wise, forsaken, not resign'd,
She gives to honours past her feeble mind,
Back to her former state her fancy moves,
And lives on past applause, that still she loves;
Yet holds in scorn the fame no more in view,
And flies the glory that would not pursue
To yon small cot, a poorly jointured Blue.





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