Classic Poem

As Love one summer eve was straying,
Who should he see at that soft hour
But young Minerva gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bower.
I need not say, 't is Love's opinion
That grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas looked that even
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that by a shady rill
At sunset hour whate'er her learning
A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,—
Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.—
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter,
The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;
As, weak or wise—it does n't matter—
Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming,
“How rosy was her lips' soft dye!”
And much that flute the flatterer blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph looked down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shocked—for, ah, ye creatures!
Even when divine you 're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious,
That graceless flute the Goddess took,
And while yet filled with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy brook;
Where as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and shrill,
'T was heard in plaintive tone repeating,
“Woman, alas, vain woman still!”