Yet what is this she-creature, plumed
  And poised in air?  Iris-illumed,
    She gleams, in borrowed glory,
  A portent of modernity,
  Out-marvelling strangest phantasy
    That chequered classic story.

  Fair-locked and winged.  So hesiod drew
  The legendary Harpy crew,
    The “Spoilers” of old fable;
  Maidens, yet monsters, woman-faced,
  With iron hearts that had disgraced
    The slaughterer of Abel.

  Chimaera dire!  The Sirens three,
  Ulysses shunned were such as she,
    Though robed in simpler raiment. 
  Is there no modern Nemesis
  To deal out to such ghouls as this
    Just destiny’s repayment?

  O modish Moloch of the air! 
  The eagle swooping from his lair
    On bird-world’s lesser creatures,
  Is spoiler less intent to slay
  Than this unsparing Bird of Prey,
    With Woman’s form and features.

  Woman?  We know her slavish thrall
  To the strange sway despotical
    Of that strong figment, Fashion;
  But is there nought in this to move
  The being born for grace and love
    To shamed rebellious passion?

  ’Tis a she-shape by Mode arrayed! 
  The dove that coos in verdant shade,
    The lark that shrills in ether,
  The humming-bird with jewelled wings,—­
  Ten thousand tiny songful things
    Have lent her plume and feather.

  They die in hordes that she may fly,
  A glittering horror, through the sky. 
    Their voices, hushed in anguish,
  Find no soft echoes in her ears,
  Or the vile trade in pangs and fears
    Her whims support would languish.

  What cares she that those wings were torn
  From shuddering things, of plumage shorn
    To make her plumes imposing? 
  That when—­for her—­bird-mothers die,
  Their broods in long-drawn agony
    Their eyes—­for her—­are closing?

  What cares she that the woods, bereft
  Of feathered denizens, are left
    To swarming insect scourges? 
  On Woman’s heart, when once made hard
  By Fashion, Pity’s gentlest bard
    Love’s plea all vainly urges.

  A Harpy, she, a Bird of Prey,
  Who on her slaughtering skyey way,
    Beak-striketh and claw-clutcheth. 
  But Ladies who own not her sway,
  Will you not lift white hands to stay
  The shameless slaughter which to-day
    Your sex’s honour toucheth?

* * * * *

The seven Ages of woman.

(AS SIR JAMES CRICHTON BROWNE SEEMS PROPHETICALLY TO SEE THEM.)