# Poems (Victor)/Aspasia

ASPASIA.
O, ye Athenians, drunken with self-praise, What dreams I had of you, beside the sea, In far Miletus, while the golden days Slid into silver nights, so sweet to me; For then I dreamed my day-dreams sweetly o'er, Fancying the touch of Pallas on my brow— Libations of both heart and wine did pour, And offered up my being with my vow.
'Twas thus to Athens my heart drew at last— My life, my soul, myself. Ah, well, I learn To love and loathe the bonds that hold me fast, Your captive and your conqueror in turn; Am I not shamed to match my charms with those Of fair boy-beauties? gentled for your love To match the freshness of the morning rose, And lisp in murmurs like the cooing dove?
O, men of Athens, by the purple sea In far Miletus, when I dreamed of you, Watching the winged ships that invited me To follow their white track upon the blue; 'Twas the desire to mate my lofty soul That drew me ever like a viewless chain Toward Homer's land of heroes, 'till I stole Away from home and dreams, to you and pain.
​I brought you beauty—but your boys invade My woman's realm of love with girlish airs; I brought high gifts, and powers to persuade, To charm, to teach, with your philosophers. But knowledge is man's realm alone, you hold, And I who am your equal am cast down Level with those who sell themselves for gold— A crownless queen—a woman of the town.
Ye vain Athenians, know this, that I By your hard laws am only made more free; Your unloved dames may sit at home and cry, But, being unwed, I meet you openly, A foreigner, you cannot wed with me; But I can win your hearts and sway your will, And make your free wives envious to see What power Aspasia wields, Milesian still.
Who would not be beloved of Pericles? I could have had all Athens at my feet, And have them for my flatterers, when I please, Yet, one great man's great love is far more sweet He is my proper mate as I am his— You see my young dreams were not all in vain— And I have tasted of ineffable bliss, If I am stung at times with fiery pain.
​It is not that I long to be a wife By your Athenian laws, and sit at home Behind a lattice, prisoner for life, With my lord left at liberty to roam; Nor is it that I crave the right to be At the symposium or the Agora known; My grievance is, that your proud dames to me Come to be taught, in secret and alone.
They fear—what do they fear? Is't me or you? Am I not pure as any of them all? But your laws are against me; and 'tis true, If fame is lowering, I have had a fall. O, selfish men of Athens, shall the world Remember you, and pass my glory by? Nay, 'til from their proud heights your names are hurled, Mine shall blaze with them on your Grecian sky.
Am I then boastful? It is half in scorn Of caring for your love, or for your praise, As women do, and must. Had I been born In this proud Athens, I had spent my days In jealousy of boys, and stolen hours With some Milesian, of a questioned place, Learning of her the use of woman's powers Usurped by men of this patrician race.
​Alas, I would I were a child again, Steeped in dream languors by the purple sea, And Athens but the vision it was then, Its great men good, its noble women free— That I on some winged ship should strive to fly To reach this goal, and founder and go down. O, impious thought! how could I wish to die, With all that I have felt and learned unknown?
Nay, I am glad to be to future times As much Athenian as is Pericles; Proud to be named by men of other climes The friend and pupil of great Socrates. What is the gossip of the city dames Behind their lattices to one like me? More glorious than their high patrician names I hold my privilege of being free!
And yet I would that they were free as I; It angers me that women are so weak, Looking askance when ere they pass me by Lest on a chance their lords should see us speak; And coming next day to an audience In hope of learning to resemble me: They wish, they tell me, to learn eloquence— The lesson they should learn is liberty.
​O, Athens, city of the beautiful, Home of all art, all elegance, all grace, Whose orators and poets sway the soul As the winds move the sea's unstable face; O, wondrous city, nurse and home of mind, This is my oracle to you this day— No generous growth from starved roots will you find, But fruitless blossoms weakening to decay.
You take my meaning? Sappho is no more, And no more Sapphos will be, in your time; The tree is dead on one side that before Ran with such burning sap of love and rhyme. Your glorious city is the utmost flower Of a one-sided culture, that will spend Itself upon itself, 'till, hour by hour, It runs its sources dry, and so must end.
That race is doomed behind whose lattices Its once free women are constrained to peer Upon the world of men with vacant eves: It was not so in Homer's time, I hear. But Eastern slaves have eaten of your store, Till in your homes all eating bread are slaves; They're built into your walls, beside your door, And bend beneath your lofty architraves.
​A woman of the race that looks upon The sculptured emblems of captivity Shall bear a slave or tyrant for a son, And none shall know the worth of liberty. Am I seditious? Nay, then, I will keep My lesson for your dames when next they steal On tip-toe to an audience. Pray sleep Securely, and dream well: we wish your weal.
Why, what vain prattle? But my heart is sore With thinking of the emptiness of things, And these Athenians, treacherous to the core, Who hung on Pericles with flatterings. I would, indeed, I were a little child, Resting my tired limbs on the sunny sands In far Miletus, where the airs blow mild, And countless looms throb under busy hands.
The busy hand must calm the busy thought, And labor cool the passions of the hour; To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought, What signifies the party last in power? But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophers Who reason on the nature of the soul, And all the vain array of orators, Who strive to hold the people in control;
​Between the poets, artists, critios, all, Who form a faction, or who found a school, We weave Penelope s web with hearts of gall, And my poor brain is oft the weary tool. Yet do I choose this life. What is to me Peace or good fame, away from all of these, But living death? I do choose liberty, And leave to Athens dames their soulless ease.
The time shall come, when Athens is no more, And you and all your gods have passed away, That other men, upon another shore, Shall from your errors learn a better way. To them eternal justice will reveal Eternal truth, and in its better light All that your legal falsehoods now conceal Will stand forth clearly in the whole world's sight.