To Mrs. Rosanna Osterman.
“Her Price is above Rubies,”—Bible.
By Col. A. M. Hobby.
Amidst the deep corruption of the age,
Where Vice and Folly universal rage,
Where lovely Virtue shrinks, as shrink she must,
From all that’s vile, polluted and unjust,
How long neglected, Virtue, wilt thou stand,
Almost a stranger in a Christian land?
While bold unblushing Guilt, usurps thy place,
And wins approving smiles from every face;
’Tis not the worst along who on her wait,
Her courts are shining with the proud and great,
All grades and ranks seem subject to her sway—
Her mandates heed—and little else obey,
While those who worship not at gilded shrines
Perchance fall into Folly’s length’ning lines,
And those who would rebuke fear to offen,
And Vice and Virtue claim an equal friend,
View shameful deeds with kind, indulgent eyes,
Deploring faults they tremble to chastise.
The arrow meant to wound the guilty part,
Thus shorn of strength, can never strike the heart;
Shafts wing’d with flowers, will only aimless fly,
It needs the naked steel drawn to the eye.
Thus Vice and Folly’s realm, each hour extends,
And day by day their enemies grow friends,
E’en as a stream—a child might drain its source—
Broadens and deepens in its onward course,
Till trembling banks its might can scarce withstand,
And universal deluge threats the land.
Oh! is there no brave heart in age or youth
Who sternly dares to speak for God—the truth?
Oh! for some genius, with a mighty hand,
To lash degrading vices from our land.
But, lo! amidst these scenes appears a form—
Bright as a star that shines thro’ cloud and storm—
’Tis Mercy’s self, in woman’s form appears,
Whose untold kindness every heart endears.
Behold! in hospitals, where dread disease
Lurks in each silent room and taints the breeze,
Where wasting fevers quench the vital spark,
And slowly pain consumes, as hopes grow dark;
’Tis there this noble woman, ’midst the gloom,
Dispenses sunlight thro’ each darken’d room.
Amidst the suffering sick, this angel stands,
With sympathizing soul and busy hands;
Bends o’er the soldier’s couch with mother’s care,
And smooths the pallid brow, so deadly fair,
Cheers the sad heart, and hopes reviving spring,
And health returning, waves her joyous wing.
Or, if the sands of life are told at last,
The soldier’s hardship and his danger ’s past,
As sink the senses in life’s parting breath,
Ere yet comes on the dreamless sleep of death,
He sees thy form, last seen of earthly things,
And bears thine image to the King of kings.
E’en as the mariner beneath the cloud
That black’ning hangs above, and seems his shroud,
Still gazes on the storm, not distant far,
To catch one gleam of hope from some bright star
Whose struggling ray breaks thro’ the gleam at last,
And tells its silver beam, “the storm is past”—
As hails the mariner that sign above,
With heart of gratitude and prayer of love—
So greets thy coming does the soldier here,
Whose thankful heart speaks thro’ the grateful tear;
He feels that thou art sent for man to see
How near an angel can a woman be.
Thy mem’ry ’ll gild his days of future strife—
The peaceful rainbow of his stormy life.
Almost unknown, thy path of love is trod,
But seen by the all-seeing eye of God,
Who bends His kind, approving smile on thee,
Embodiment of Christian charity!
The gay world thou shunnest, and the breath of fame,
Thy object duty, self-applause thy aim;
But sure thy high reward as proud thy part,
Deep thanks swell from a nation’s grateful heart—
Not wealth of words could purchase such a name,
Virtuous Ambition askes no higher claim.
But yet, there is a crown for thee, where Time
Treads not,—a holy and a blessed clime
Beyond the reign of Death,—where golden skies
Bend o’er the sapphire floors of Paradise,
Where amaranthine blooms their splendors shed,
And more than morning glory’ll crown thy head,
The Better Land’s reward that’s won is this,
Celestial pleasures, and eternal bliss,
At God’s right hand to dwell when suns decay,
Worlds melt in chaos, planets fade away,
And Time’s decrepid form is darkly laid
Within the grave Eternity hath made.
But cease my song, for loftier harps than mine
Shall hymn thy praise, and tell thy deeds divine,
And purer lips than these, in midnight prater,
Will ask thy Maker long thy life to spare,
’Tis due, and with this gratitude of man’s
Accept this tribute at a stranger’s hands.