By Woman's words to man so well seducing,
Came sin's accursed entrance and our wo;
She, the unhallowed science introducing,
Of good, forbidden, taught us ill to know.
By Woman's lips were first the accents spoken
To cheer a world whose hope was in the grave;
That Jesus had the three-days slumber broken,
And, rising, showed that He was strong to save.
She, from free Eden to the earth's dark prison,
Led Adam by the flattery of her tongue;
She unto Peter told, "the Lord is risen!"
In melody like that to sweet harps strung.
By Woman, then, though sometimes cometh sorrow,
(And who of mortals is exempt from this?)
By Woman's love, besides the hope of morrow,
There's full fruition of the present bliss.
She, in life's sunshine, will increase life's pleasure By social converse, and the charms of mind; She, in affliction, will be found a treasure,
To soothe the heart and banish care, unkind.
She, in youth's journey, from the wayside flower Will pluck the thorn, lest it should give thee pain; In age still constant, and in death's last hour
A helper when all other help is vain.
Go, then, ye heartless! to whom Woman never Brings up pure images of peace and home, And fireside joys, and faithful care, whenever Pale Sickness seizes, or afflictions come;
Go to that selfish love the cold world offers,
And find your solace, if indeed ye can;
For me, I'll ever seek, despising scoffers,
Her virtuous smile.
God's richest boon to man!
I WENT to Chapel some few Sundays since
In Chatham street, New York; a stranger there,
And yet at home within those hallowed walls
Where all are welcome. It was early yet,
So I awhile surveyed the edifice,
Admiring at the growth of piety,
Or growth of that fair city, which had changed
Its Theatres to temples. Soon the seats,
Spacious, and free to poor and rich alike,
Were filled. The holy man of God his place
Ascended; silence reigned and hearts seemed hushed
At consciousness that Jesus was within;
When presently the Choir, whose ample place,
Unwonted, was behind the sacred desk,
And in full view of worshippers, began:
He dies! the Friend of Sinners dies!
And sweetly plaintive notes, in which I thought
The very soul of harmony spake out,
Did many voices, well attuned, reply
Subduingly Here's love beyond degree!
So rich, so melancholy, and so soft
The strains that rose and fell upon the ear,
So fitly modulation of the tones
Was married to the language, blending sense
With melody, and to the heart and head
Conveying truly, sweetly, mournfully,
that my soul was satisfied,
And yet was troubled. Could I help but go
With the sad story?— could I help but hear
The voice of Salem's daughters, as they wept?-
Or could I then resist the plaintive call:
"Come, saints, and drop a tear or two for Him
Who groaned beneath your load!"— Could I refrain
From joyful tears, as the triumphant burst
Gave token that the God had left the tomb,
And risen, Conqueror and King?
Upon the leader of this wondrous power
Of minstrelsy concentrate, as he sat
Midst of the choir, upon the farthest seat,
And highest the spirit he of music
Personified. His frame, obedient to
The stirring impulse of the mellow sounds,
Involuntarily bent, now at the close,
Symphonious, and now to full extent
Expanded, as pealed up the harmony,
While every nerve and every fibre seemed
Compelled to the sweet service. He, I saw-
Blest necromancer- had infused his soul
Into the soul of each, and each as one,
Gave voice,-one master spirit moving all.
It speeds devotion, when intelligence
And skill, and piety, in concord join,
Producing music. Softened by its power,
The heart flows forth, and meekly entertains
The gospel message. Let not tuneless choirs,
Where life is not, nor melody, nor taste,
Essay the lofty praises of the King:
For to his shrines should such false fire be brought,
'Twould mar the sacrifice. How heavily,
How wearily would grieved Devotion's wing
Soar then! New unction must the soul require,
If thus disturbed, to worship God aright.
"A WEARY World," forever cry
The stricken, troubled, and the sad;
And openly, alike the bad,
Alike the good, in secret sigh;
And "weary, weary world," is still
The burden in their song of ill.
Aforetime, I have strung some lays
In idleness, to theme like this;
And shut my wilful eyes on bliss,
That round me lay in noontide blaze;
And chose the darkness which, in stour,
Fancy beheld around me lower.
Well pleased me then to say or sing,
"This world is all a fleeting show;"
And all its joys, as well as wo,
Are sombre as the raven's wing,
And flat as dreams of folly past,
That charm awhile, and cheat at last.
I've wiser grown; and this fair world
Seems fraught with something of the grace,
Which God inscribed upon its face,
When he the lovely planet hurled
Away, as Time began his years, -
To join the dances of the spheres.
'My heart leaps up," when I am fanned
By morning's fragrance-laden air;
How blessed is the night! how fair
The landscape where I spy His hand!
The hill and vale have charms for me;
The river, and the broad blue sea.
Yes! and its fields, and fruits, and flowers, Its sun, and stars, and glorious frame, Now tell me of the Maker's name.
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