Humbly to honour, meekly to obey,
In charity’s mild duties to engage,
And gently soothe the fretfulness of age,—
Such is the sacred post to woman given;
Home is her battle-field; the strife must rage
Till sin and self are from their empire driven:
Will not the victor rest with martyr-saints in heaven?
With weariness I viewed my rural life,
Hid from a world in which I hoped to shine,—
Better the press of care, the toil of strife,