When the dark shadows of approaching ills
Have fallen on the spirit, and depressed
Its proudest energies—when fear instils
Its dastard maxims in the noblest breast,
Preventing action and denying rest—
When, undefined in distance, dimly glow
Spectres of evil, till, by fancy drest,
The illusive phantoms on the vision grow,
And giants seem to wield the impending blow—
When, wearied by uncertainty, we pray
For what we fear, and deprecate suspense—
When gleams of hope are painful as a ray
Flashing at midnight from a light intense,
And leave the darkness of despair more dense—
When pleasure's cup is tasteless, and we seek
No more the brief relief we once drew thence—
When comes no sabbath in the lingering week
Harassing thought to end, or coming bliss to speak—
When even “desire it faileth,” and the voice
Of softest music irritates the ear—
When the glad sun makes fields and groves rejoice,
While to our eyes the prospect still is drear—
When the mild southern gale, that used to cheer
With its bland fragrance, while it cooled the brow
With lingering fever wasted, pained and sere,
Has lost its power to charm—'tis then we know
The worth of woman's love, and what to her we owe.
Her holy love is like the gentle rill,
Born where a fountain's waters bright are playing,
(As from the birth of time they have, and will
Till time shall end,) in noiseless beauty straying
O'er golden sands, through verdant meads, and staying,
To irrigate and freshen, as it flows
Where man's proud works around in ruin lying,
Proclaim the triumph of his many foes,
Lust, passion, jealousy, and all the fiends he knows.
And worse than these his breast will enter in,
And each in turn his labored love control.
The fond idolatry, which is not sin
When woman loves—that yielding of the soul,
Which hardly asks return, but gives the whole,
He knoweth not; but, in the folds of pride,
He seeks his gloomy spirit to enroll:
Then her, who loves him most, he'll basely chide,
And with his bitter words her constancy deride.
Aye! thus infatuate, he will delight
To lord it o'er the fond, devoted one
Who breathes, but lives not, absent from his sight,
If, for a moment, sorrow is unknown,
Ambition gratified, or foes o'erthrown.
But when his soul is darkened with alarms,
And piercing thorns are in his pathway strown,
He yields a willing pris'ner to her charms,
And seeks to rest his head where love her bosom warms.
But as the savage, when his eyes behold
The bright creations of the artist's mind,
Where light and shade the loveliest forms enfold,
And chastened taste with nature's lore is joined,
Pauses in ecstacy; yet seeks to find
What hath his untaught spirit so subdued,
But all in vain; so man, to love resigned,
Can comprehend not what hath so endued
Fair woman with the power to soothe his nature rude.
He gazeth on the rill that is her love,
But cannot pierce the bower of modesty
Where roses, and where lilies twine above
Its fount, and load the air with fragrancy.
He hears its voice of heavenly melody;
He sees, above, the bow of beauty spanned;
He drinks; the draught has power his soul to free
From all its ills; he feels his heart expand;
He bears a charmed life; he walks on Eden land.
Creature of impulse! but of impulse trained
To do the bidding of a gentle heart,
What man by years of study hath not gained,
Thy spirit's teaching doth to thee impart.
To him the unknown, to thee the easy art,
To sway his reason and control his will;
And when the unbidden gusts of passion start,
To lay the whirlwind and bid all be still,
And Peace, the vacant throne of Anarchy, to fill.
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My cherished one! this tributary lay
Upon thy natal morn thy husband brings;
The gathered thoughts of many a weary day.
Weary, save that my soul, on Fancy's wings,
Borne as a bird that towards its eyrie springs,
Flew where was thine to hold communion sweet:
Save that each blissful memory, that clings
Around my heart, would, as a dream, repeat
Unnumbered vanished hours, with love and joy replete.
As, when the orb that makes the day, declines,
The twilight hour prolongs its cheering reign,
My sun (thy love) through memory's twilight shines,
Till its fair morning breaks on me again.
Then shall my song resume in bolder strain
The praises of thy sex, while I behold
The loveliness, whose image I retain
Within my heart—then shall my arms enfold
Her who hath been to me, more than my lay hath told. |