WOMAN AND SONG.
(From a graceful little volume, entitled, "Poetical Recreations," by C.A. Hulbert.)
Oh, who shall say that woman's ear
Thrills to the minstrel's voice in vain?
She hath a balm diffusing tear,
She hath a softer, holier strain—
A cheering smile of hope to give,
A voice to bid the mourner live.
She hath a milder beam of praise,
Her heart a soil where Truth may bloom,
And while her drooping flowers we raise,
They yield us back a rich perfume.
Her influence bids our talents rise
'Neath Love and Fancy's native skies!
I heard an infant's lisping tongue
Address his mother's smiling eye,
And fondly ask his favourite song—
His soul seemed wrapt in harmony;
She sung—and gave the cheering kiss,
Which made the poet's fortune his.
His mother saw his fancies stray
To fragrant poesy, and leave
The dull pursuit of fortune's way,
'Till some would chide and others grieve;
But she had marked the rising flame,
And led and nourish'd it to fame!
When verse his mind to writing bore,
And genius shed its lustre there,
How proudly did she con it o'er,
Unconscious fell the blissful tear:
'Twas her's to lighten care's control,
And raise the drooping, pensive soul.
Her labour past, another breast,
Still lovely woman's, urged his pen—
Pure love was sent to make him blest,
And bid his fancies flow again:
She yielded to his minstrel pride
The heart, the hand to lips denied!
Quick roll'd the years in tranquil peace,
The peace by harmony begun.
And numbers charm'd each day of bliss,
That flowing verse and concord won:
His Mary's music soothed his woe,
And chased the tear that chanced to flow.
Death came—and Poetry was o'er,
The chords of song had ceas'd to thrill,
The Minstrel's name was heard no more,
But one true heart was heaving still—
His Mary's voice would nightly weave
Its lone, deep notes around his grave!