The Needle. a Poetical Essay, Canto III

To man the sway of nations was assign'd; The Needle's empire fell to woman-kind, Bright as her form, and taper as her waist, Like her refin'd, and polish'd as her taste, With eye of light, with poignant fancy crown'd, Keen as the Needle to impart the wound, Like the sharp weapon, she, with pointed wit, Can sting the heart of noble, or of cit, With mazy clue, and Daedalean skill, Can lead thro' winding labyrinths at will, Arachne-like, within her nets can lie, Quick to surprize the proud entangled fly.

Ye taylors, glovers, staymakers, beware! Nor still usurp the province of the fair; Ye sadlers too, ye male-embroiderers, yield The Needle to the woman—as her field; 'Tis her's to bear this spear of softer war, And her's to drive the Amazonian car.

When did a woman labour in the forge To form the bolt for Jupiter—or George? Or when did Mars, or Vulcan intervene To walk the paths of Beauty's Sovereign Queen?

Despise we not great Hercules, who bore The female distaff on the Lydian shore. And look we not with proud fastidious eyes On Peleus' son, who wore the female guise. With pain we read of Sampson, when he gave His giant-strength to be a woman's slave: These paid the forfeit for their want of pride, And the three heroes for a woman died. Emasculated man, be wise in time, Or meet their fortunes, as you shar'd their crime.

Come, Woty, wilt thou deign to climb with me Old Pindus' top?—or shall I follow thee? Thou take the lead, and, like Elisha, I Will catch thy mantle to the Muse's sky: Wilt thou, with me, the Needle's toil pursue, And laugh at Mother Griffith's poor Review; Come, leave law-quirks and precedents awhile, For thy own native tongue—the Muse's style: Close by thy own Parnassus' shrubs we'll stray, And from dull business steal one happy day: But mark the Muse—for she proceeds to sing The Needle's labours on sublimer wing.

The sacred veil sequester'd females chose, And left the world for solitude's repose; Here Eloisa mourn'd her Abelard, While Love inspir'd the nun to be a bard; 'Twixt grace and nature struggling, soft desire Prompted her tongue, and tun'd her silver lyre; Not Lesbian Sappho sung a sweeter strain, Nor half so sweet does Philomel complain, For Abelard had tutor'd her, when young, In Wisdom's lore, and in the Muse's song; So Ovid his Corinna did inspire With love, with learning, and Apollo's lyre; To fill the vacant intervals of time Fair Eloise beguil'd the hours with rhime; But rhime not always, tho' its numbers charm, Can sooth a lovesick bread with passion warm; Her glowing fancy to the Needle flies, And first, behold! the works of Nature rise; Deep-read in sage philosophy, her hand Bids a creation dawn at her command, Here the bright sun emerges from a cloud, There thickening mists his golden lustre shroud, At distance Cynthia shines amid her train, In full-orb'd glory, thro' the heavenly plain; His glowing car there Sol in Ocean laves, And the horizon stoops to drink the waves; And now the Needle to our earth descends, Where the tall forest to the tempest bends, Here valleys sink, and hoary mountains rise, The lark, obsequious, in light ether flies, In liquid lapse a river winds below, Here bleat the sheep, and there the oxen low; Vision has ears, can see the torrent roar, And ears can see the billows lash the shore: Who has not heard the forked lightning fly, Or seen the thunder crack along the sky? In picture, fancy every organ sways, We hear the painted shepherd tune his lays; Such is the force of mimic art which draws, Amphion-like, even quarries to her laws! Painting and Poetry, twin-sisters, vie Thro' fancy's ear, to charm the ravish'd eye. Beneath the plastic hand of Eloise The timorous aspin trembles at the breeze, Clear flows the brook beneath the shining toy, Which seems to work for Eloise with joy; Here skuds the trout thro' shades of finest lawn, There, o'er the velvet parks, the bounding fawn. Here blooms a garden—there a fountain flows, Here the pale lilly weds the crimson rose; Now twisted woodbines form a proud alcove, Beneath whose arch she rais'd a shrine to Love, Amid the graceful forms, which deck'd the shrine, Large as the life, young Abelard, was thine; And in the train of beauteous nymphs, which shone Resplendent, Eloise had wrought her own; She first in tap'stry, ere the curious loom Taught trees to wave their tops, and flowers to bloom, Gave the bold figures to the ravish'd sight, Where shepherds sport, or warlike heroes fight; Hence, emulous, the fair sequester'd maid Still guides the Needle thro' the rich brocade; Or, when warm love is prevalent o'er grace, Breathes her fond passion on a piece of lace; For, ere the intermingling bobbins toil'd, The brighter needle all their glories foil'd; No supplemental patterns then were known, For Love or Fancy was the guide alone; In rich embroidery Cupid tipt his dart, While sage Minerva dignified the art.