“There is a Roman splendor in her smile, A tenderness that owes its depth to toil; Well may she leave the soft voluptuous wile, That forms the woman of a softer soil; She does pour forth herself a fragrant oil, Upon the dark asperities of Fate, And make a garden else all desolate.” Ellery Channing.
XX.
Still held in sweet remembrance thou, my friend, As when I knew thee in thy maiden prime; Though later years to ripening graces lend The graver traits, whilst we together climb The pathway upward to those loftier heights, ’Bove clouded prospects and familiar sights. Thy gracious worth shines brightly in mine eyes, Thy warm heart’s labors, thy large liberal brain, Ennobling studies, and broad charities, Thou woman worthy of the coming age! Whilst household duties thou dost well sustain, Yet ampler service for thy sex presage; Can aught from Memory’s record e’er erase Thy cordial manners, and resplendent face?
“So have I seen in fair Castile, The youth in glittering squadrons start, Sudden the flying jennet wheel, And hurl the unexpected dart.” Scott.
XXI.
Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre Startles the churches from their slumbers late, Discoursing music, mixed with lofty ire, At wrangling factions in the restless state, Till tingles with thy note each listening ear,— Then household charities by the friendly fire Of home, soothe all to fellowship and good cheer. No sin escapes thy fervent eloquence, Yet, touching with compassion the true word, Thou leavest the trembling culprit’s dark offence To the mediation of his gracious Lord. To noble thought and deep dost thou dispense Due meed of praise, strict in thy just award. Can other pulpits with this preacher cope? I glory in thy genius, and take hope!
“Many are the friends of the golden tongue.” Welsh Triad.
XXII.
People’s Attorney, servant of the Right! Pleader for all shades of the solar ray, Complexions dusky, yellow, red, or white; Who, in thy country’s and thy time’s despite, Hast only questioned, What will Duty say? And followed swiftly in her narrow way: Tipped is thy tongue with golden eloquence, All honeyed accents fall from off thy lips,— Each eager listener his full measure sips, Yet runs to waste the sparkling opulence,— The scorn of bigots, and the worldling’s flout. If Time long held thy merit in suspense, Hastening repentant now, with pen devout, Impartial History dare not leave thee out.
“Who faithful in insane sedition keeps, With silver and with ruddy gold may vie.” Tyrtæus.