(Written in the album of an unknown lady.)
ADY, although we have not met,
And may not meet, beneath the sky; And whether thine are eyes of jet, Gray, or dark blue, or violet,
Or hazel-Heaven knows, not I;
Whether around thy cheek of rose
A maiden's glowing locks are curled, And to some thousand kneeling beaux Thy frown is cold as winter snows, Thy smile is worth a world;
Or whether, past youth's joyous strife,
The calm of thought is on thy brow,
And thou art in thy noon of life,
Loving and loved, a happy wife,
And happier mother now-
I know not: but, whate'er thou art,
Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell,
To call Fate's joys or blunt his dart,
There should not be one hand or heart
But served or wished thee well.
For thou art woman-with that word
Life's dearest hopes and memories come,
Truth, Beauty, Love-in her adored,
And earth's lost Paradise restored
In the green bower of home.
What is man's love? His vows are broke,
Even while his parting kiss is warm ;
But woman's love all change will mock,
And, like the ivy round the oak,
Cling closest in the storm.
And well the Poet at her shrine
May bend, and worship while he woos;
To him she is a thing divine,
The inspiration of his line,
His Sweetheart and his Muse.
If to his song the echo rings
Of Fame 'tis woman's voice he hears;
If ever from his lyre's proud strings
Flow sounds like rush of angel-wings,
'Tis that she listens while he sings,
With blended smiles and tears:
Smiles-tears-whose blessed and blessing power,
Like sun and dew o'er summer's tree,
Alone keeps green through Time's long hour,
That frailer thing than leaf or flower,
ANGEL IN THE HOUSE," BY COVENTRY PATMORE.
O! when the Lord made North and South,
And sun and moon ordainèd, He,
Forth bringing each by word of mouth
In order of its dignity,
Did man from the crude clay express
By sequence, and, all else decreed, He formed the woman: nor might less Than Sabbath such a work succeed.
And still with favor singled out,
Marred less than man by mortal Fall, Her disposition is devout,
Her countenance angelical;
No faithless thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy checkers settled sense,
Like alternations of the clouds
On noonday's azure permanence;
Pure courtesy, composure, ease,
Declare affections nobly fixed,
And impulse sprung from due degrees
Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed;
Her modesty, her chiefest grace,
The cestus clasping Venus' side,
Is potent to deject the face
Of him who would offend its pride; Wrong dares not in her presence speak,
Nor spotted thought its taint disclose, Under the protest of a cheek
Outstripping Nature's boast the rose.
In mind and manners how discreet!
How artless in her very art;
How candid in discourse; how sweet
The concord of her lips and heart;
How (not to call true instinct's bent
And woman's very nature, harm),
How amiable and innocent
Her pleasure in her power to charm;
How humbly careful to attract,
Though crowned with all the soul desires,
Connubial aptitude exact,
Diversity that never tires.
WHAT WERE MAN WITHOUT WOMAN?
FROM PLEASURES OF HOPE," BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
N joyous youth, what soul hath never known
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?
Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye
Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh?
Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name?
There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow;
There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed,
In self-adoring pride securely mailed:
But, triumph not, ye peace-enamored few!
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!
For you no fancy consecrates the scene
Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between ;
'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet;
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!
Who that would ask a heart to dullness wed,
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?
No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy,
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!
And say, without our hopes, without our fears,
Without the home that plighted love endears,
Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh! what were man ?—a world without a sun.
Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower!
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there,
At starry midnight charmed the silent air;
In vain the wild-bird carolled on the steep,
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade,
Aërial notes in mingling measure played;
The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;
Still slowly passed the melancholy day,
And still the stranger wist not where to stray.
The world was sad!-the garden was a wild!
And man, the hermit, sighed-till woman smiled!
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