C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Queen
By Coventry Patmore (1823–1896)
T
How hard it is for man to soar;
But how much harder to be less
Than what his mistress loves him for!
He does with ease what do he must
Or lose her; and there’s naught debarred….
Ah, wasteful woman! she that may
On her sweet self set her own price,
Knowing he cannot choose but pay,—
How has she cheapened Paradise!
How given for naught her priceless gift!
How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine,
Which, spent with due respective thrift,
Had made brutes men and men divine!
O queen! awake to thy renown,
Require what ’tis our wealth to give,
And comprehend and wear the crown
Of thy despised prerogative!
I who in manhood’s name at length
With glad songs come to abdicate
The gross regality of strength,
Must yet in this thy praise abate,—
That through thine erring humbleness
And disregard of thy degree,
Mainly, has man been so much less
Than fits his fellowship with thee.
High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow,
The coward had grasped the hero’s sword,
The vilest had been great, hadst thou,
Just to thyself, been worth’s reward:
But lofty honors undersold
Seller and buyer both disgrace;
And favor that makes folly bold
Puts out the light in virtue’s face.