ABSTRACT
from The Pioneer, 23 November 1833, p. 96.
Ah, Pioneer! I’ve often thought, and trembled
At that same thought, that you were not sincere;
I felt afraid, love, that your heart dissembled,
When you wrote that address—it was the fear
That thou wert toying with our gentlest feeling,
And wounding our lone grief instead of healing.
You write as one who knew our degradation;
Who knew our helpless, hopeless, piteous, lot;
Who, by the power of kindly, soft persuasion,
Could wipe away our mind’s deep cancer-spot;
Give woman back what force has long wrench’d from her,
And placed on fickle chance, or man’s false honour.
Art thou in thou in earnest, gallant Pioneer?
Is all thou sayest the fruit of thy pure thought?
Come tell me, bravest, art thou quite sincere,
Or dost thou hold our intellect at nought?
If false, you heartless rogue, we curse your knavery;
If true, thy honied words relieve our slavery.
A thousand hearts will feel a pillow’d rest
In your dear confidence, and hope will heal
The many sorrows which have long oppress’d
And held imprison’d woman’s weal;
Long-buried hope will gladly re-appear,
And breathe its thanks to thee, good Pioneer.
One faithful token from your skilful pen
That you are woman’s friend; and evermore
The galling yoke and harsh deceit of men
Will lose the terror which it had before.
Till then we know not truly, loving scribe,
If ’tis thine aim to comfort or to gibe.
PIONEERA.