Rhode Island American And Providence Gazette

MISCELLANY.

From the Charleston City Gazette.

WOMAN.

"Daughter of God and Man."—Milton.

There is a language of the heart
That mocks at learning's studied art,
There is an utterance of the soul
That laughs at scholarship's control;
Breathes forth in verse a living thought,
With feeling, love, and nature fraught;
Woman's the theme: and who would e'er require
One borrow'd string to animate his lyre?

There is a witchery that hies
Within the sunshine of her eyes,
More potent than the magic spell
Of talisman, or fairy dell,
Who has not felt her very name
Inspire his heart and thrill his frame?
Idolatry! the frowning world may cry;
But who has loved nor felt the ecstasy?

O who has eyes in that hour
When Woman's love and Woman's power
Have twined their influence round his heart,
Felt not that Woman can impart
But smile—or glance—or smother'd sigh,
A world of bliss and constancy?

Priestess of Love! how oft thou'rt left to mourn
Man's perfidy—forsaken and forlorn.
There is a vigil in the sky
That marks the villain's perjury;
How can he hope to be forgiven
Who breaks on earth his vow to Heaven?
He wedded in this world may be,
But Hell, like his inconsistency,
Will echoing yell the oath that fires his breath,
And brand it in the registry of death.

Pleasure's a poor and gaudy toy
A forgery on solid joy,
A gilded chain that drags the slave
Helpless and childless to the grave;
The haunted Libertine who lies
Without one hand to close his eyes,
Sighs to the passing breeze his dying groan,
Companionless—unwedded and alone.

Man has a wandering heart—his soul
Spurns fetters, slavery and control—
To-day he climbs the snow clad steep
To-morrow ploughs the foamy deep—
And now he roams by mountain side,
Without a friend without a guide,
'Till Woman bid his wayward steps to cease,
And turns his Arab thoughts to home and peace.

Woman! companion of my life,
Less loved when maiden than when wife;
How fondly do I sing to thee,
Of wedded love and constancy,
Dear mother of my child, I trace
Thy emblems in her artless face—
I clasp the lisping babe, receive a kiss,
And feel a father's love—a father's bliss.

'Tis Woman's voice in accents low,
That hushes first the infant's woe;
'Tis Woman's fond maternal arms
That shield her boy from vain alarms;
Uprear him in a world of cares,
And save him from his countless snares.
Nurse of mankind! I fondly view in thee
The watchful guardian of our infancy.

For would I woman's friendship sing—
O 'tis a pure undying thing!
The dew that gems the blossom'd thorn
Shines brightest in the sunny morn.
But faithful woman can bestow
A light to gild the night of woe!
Her love, like moon-beam on a stormy sea,
Shed o'er our cares its own serenity.

I've found the world a faithless thing;
Man's friendship weak and perishing,
Man's friendship?—'Tis the ocean's spray;
The froth that rude winds sweep away!
You ask where constancy can rest?
Go, find it in a woman's breast!
I would not give one fair, loved friend I boast,
For all the wealth of India's golden coast!

When pale disease, with all her train,
Fevers the blood and fires the brain,
'Tis Woman's sympathetic art
Quells the wild throbbings of the heart,
The mortal pang, the burning sigh,
In nature's latest agony!
O fair physician! thou art ever near,
With oil and wine the drooping frame to cheer!

I ask not, on the bed of death,
Proud Man to watch my fleeting breath
Let Woman's prayer embalm the hour!
For Oh, it has a soothing power,
To calm the awful struggle here,
To brighten hope and banish fear:
To raise new prospects of a land on high,
Where Death is swallow'd up in Victory!