WOMAN'S LOVE.
1844
Oh! who shall tell of woman's love,
Or half its depth and durance prove—
The one fond passion of a heart,
Where every life-beat is a part:
Of her devotion, from the hour
When love lits up with magic power
A new existence, pure and bright,
With something of an angel light.
That treasured fulness of the heart,
Where every fairer, brighter part,
Concentrates in the one dear thought
(The lesson by love's language taught),
That neither smile, nor tear, nor sigh,
Can ere again pass lightly by.
No grief or care, no joy or woe,
Again the heart alone can know;
But each another's joy will share,
And doubly feel another's care,
And live and love, two souls, to heaven,
Although on earth one heart were given.
. . . If worldly care disturbs the mind,
And friends prove false, and fate unkind—
When all around is dark and drear,
With nought but woman's love to cheer,
Man still may bless the hand of fate,
And own earth is not desolate,
If woman's love, and woman's care,
Hush the wild voice of his despair.
Woman, whose heart can only know
A part of life's own care and woe;
Whose griefs, like shadows, pass away,
If love's own glance alluring stay—
The one dear source of all her joy,
Which, living on, bears no alloy.
Oh! this can make her days appear
One long bright smile, without a tear,
And give her heart that joyous tone,
That lives and lasts in love alone.
. . . Man will go forth the world's own child,
And many schemes careering wild,
Fill up the measure of a heart,
Where love plays but inferior part;
A pretty pastime, meant to chase
The slow dull hours of life's sad pace.
Or, like a sunbeam glancing o'er
A waste, all dark and drear before—
One momentary gleam of light,
And all again is dark as night;
And then the heart once more is given
To all that calls the soul from heaven:
Riches and power usurp the place
Of nature's beauty, love and grace.
Oh, fell ambition! whose vast power
Is felt in life, through every hour,
Welling affections to decay,
Wearing each better grace away;
Consuming hopes and blest emotions,
Crushing the soul's own best devotions;
Would that thy tyrant days were run,
And love's soft reign on earth begun:
When each, preferring other's weal,
And feeling more, where others feel,—
When the heart beats with joy to see
Another's greater ecstasy—
Or give the heart a fond relief,
By sharing half another's grief,—
All would be bright, and pure, and good,
With not one soul in solitude:
No bosom feeding its despair,
By brooding over bygone care,
Till heart in selfish thought is cast,
A broken reed, upon the past.
But, oh! not thus should woman be,
Not in her darkest misery;
For ever and anon will gleam,
Like the pure sunbeam o'er the stream,
A thought, a sigh, for others given,
The last faint gleam of her soul's heaven.
Oh! who shall tell of woman's love,
Or half its depth and durance prove—
The one fond passion of a heart,
Where every life-beat is a part:
Of her devotion, from the hour
When love lits up with magic power
A new existence, pure and bright,
With something of an angel light.
That treasured fulness of the heart,
Where every fairer, brighter part,
Concentrates in the one dear thought
(The lesson by love's language taught),
That neither smile, nor tear, nor sigh,
Can ere again pass lightly by.
No grief or care, no joy or woe,
Again the heart alone can know;
But each another's joy will share,
And doubly feel another's care,
And live and love, two souls, to heaven,
Although on earth one heart were given.
. . . If worldly care disturbs the mind,
And friends prove false, and fate unkind—
When all around is dark and drear,
With nought but woman's love to cheer,
Man still may bless the hand of fate,
And own earth is not desolate,
If woman's love, and woman's care,
Hush the wild voice of his despair.
Woman, whose heart can only know
A part of life's own care and woe;
Whose griefs, like shadows, pass away,
If love's own glance alluring stay—
The one dear source of all her joy,
Which, living on, bears no alloy.
Oh! this can make her days appear
One long bright smile, without a tear,
And give her heart that joyous tone,
That lives and lasts in love alone.
. . . Man will go forth the world's own child,
And many schemes careering wild,
Fill up the measure of a heart,
Where love plays but inferior part;
A pretty pastime, meant to chase
The slow dull hours of life's sad pace.
Or, like a sunbeam glancing o'er
A waste, all dark and drear before—
One momentary gleam of light,
And all again is dark as night;
And then the heart once more is given
To all that calls the soul from heaven:
Riches and power usurp the place
Of nature's beauty, love and grace.
Oh, fell ambition! whose vast power
Is felt in life, through every hour,
Welling affections to decay,
Wearing each better grace away;
Consuming hopes and blest emotions,
Crushing the soul's own best devotions;
Would that thy tyrant days were run,
And love's soft reign on earth begun:
When each, preferring other's weal,
And feeling more, where others feel,—
When the heart beats with joy to see
Another's greater ecstasy—
Or give the heart a fond relief,
By sharing half another's grief,—
All would be bright, and pure, and good,
With not one soul in solitude:
No bosom feeding its despair,
By brooding over bygone care,
Till heart in selfish thought is cast,
A broken reed, upon the past.
But, oh! not thus should woman be,
Not in her darkest misery;
For ever and anon will gleam,
Like the pure sunbeam o'er the stream,
A thought, a sigh, for others given,
The last faint gleam of her soul's heaven.