Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MADAME DE STAEL, by EMMA CATHERINE (MANLY) EMBURY



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MADAME DE STAEL, by                    
First Line: There was no beauty on thy brow
Last Line: Must mourn their own high doom.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ianthe
Subject(s): Beauty; Life; Love; Prophecy & Prophets; Women


There was no beauty on thy brow,
No softness in thine eye,
Thy cheek wore not the rose's glow,
Thy lip the ruby's dye;
The charms that make a woman's pride
Have never been thine own;
Heaven had to thee these gifts denied,
In which earth's bright ones shone.

Far higher, holier gifts were thine --
Mind, intellect were given,
Till thou wert as a holy shrine,
Where men might worship Heaven.
Yes; woman as thou wert, thy word
Could make the strong man start,
And thy lip's magic power has stirred
Ambition's iron heart.

The charm of eloquence; the skill
To wake each secret string,
And from the bosom's chords at will
Life's mournful music bring;
The o'ermastering strength of mind, which sways
The haughty and the free,
Whose might earth's mightiest one obeys, --
These -- these were given to thee.

Thou hadst a prophet's eye to pierce
The depths of man's dark soul,
And bring back tales of passions fierce,
O'er which its dim waves roll;
And all too deeply hadst thou learned
The lore of woman's heart;
The thoughts in thine own breast that burned,
Taught thee that mournful part.

Thine never was a woman's dower
Of tenderness and love;
Thou couldst tame down the eagle's power,
But couldst not chain the dove.
O! love is not for such as thee;
The gentle and the mild,
The beautiful thus blest may be,
But never Fame's proud child.

When 'mid the halls of state alone,
In queenly "pride of place,"
The majesty of mind thy throne,
Thy sceptre, mental grace, --
Then was thy glory felt; and thou
Didst triumph in that hour,
When men could turn from Beauty's brow
In tribute to thy power.

And yet a woman's heart was thine;
No dream of fame can fill
The bosom which must vainly pine
For sweet Affection's thrill;
And O! what pangs thy spirit wrung
E'en in thine hour of pride,
When all could list Love's wooing tongue
Save thee, bright Glory's bride.

Corinna! thine own hand has traced
Thy melancholy fate;
Though by earth's noblest triumphs graced,
Bliss waits not on the great;
Only in lowly places sleep
Life's flowers of sweet perfume,
And they who climb Fame's mountain steep
Must mourn their own high doom.





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