 | Poems of home and country |  |
WOMAN.
[_]
Read at a social gathering in Boston, where a Christian woman very acceptably occupied the chair, as presiding officer.
What were this globe, with mountain, plain, and wood,
Grand in their gorgeousness, and great as good,
The mighty ocean with its ceaseless flow,
Expansive sky above and sea below,—
Were all this grandeur in the world alone,
Without a veil of beauty o'er it thrown,
As o'er the trellis creeps the slender vine,
As o'er old ruins verdant ivies twine,
As near the crags, the humble wild flower sleeps,
Or gentle ripples smile on ocean deeps?
Grand in their gorgeousness, and great as good,
The mighty ocean with its ceaseless flow,
Expansive sky above and sea below,—
Were all this grandeur in the world alone,
Without a veil of beauty o'er it thrown,
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As o'er old ruins verdant ivies twine,
As near the crags, the humble wild flower sleeps,
Or gentle ripples smile on ocean deeps?
What were the storm, that darkens all the air,
When thunders roll and flashing lightnings glare?
Did not, with voice of love, God's matchless will
Quell the wild tumult, and say, “Peace, be still!”
And bid the rainbow with its lovely form
Wreathe by its light the background of the storm?
When thunders roll and flashing lightnings glare?
Did not, with voice of love, God's matchless will
Quell the wild tumult, and say, “Peace, be still!”
And bid the rainbow with its lovely form
Wreathe by its light the background of the storm?
The vale is sweeter, for the o'er-hanging hill;
The beauty shows the grandeur, grander still.
What were this hour of joy and festive cheer,
Though faces meet us which our hearts revere;
What were this scene, brilliant with church and state,—
If, met in conclave, for some grave debate,
Man sat, alone, sombre and grave and wise,
Like old gnarled oak beneath the breezy skies?
The beauty shows the grandeur, grander still.
What were this hour of joy and festive cheer,
Though faces meet us which our hearts revere;
What were this scene, brilliant with church and state,—
If, met in conclave, for some grave debate,
Man sat, alone, sombre and grave and wise,
Like old gnarled oak beneath the breezy skies?
We love the strength that rules, the light that guides,
The higher will that judges and decides,—
Blessed be God!—we own the chairman's power;
But still, to-night, 't is woman rules the hour.
The higher will that judges and decides,—
Blessed be God!—we own the chairman's power;
But still, to-night, 't is woman rules the hour.
| Poems of home and country | |