244 LEWIS F. THOMAS [1830-40. WOMAN. woman! unto thee my thoughts aye tend — To thee — the fairest feature of creation ; Ever the falsest foe, and firmest friend — Our greatest grief — our sweetest conso- lation ; Tyrant and slave together in thee blend, And still thou art our proudest exultation ; 1 loathe, yet love thee, from my inmost soul. And spuming thee, I bow to thy control. Thou epitome of antithesis ! Thou Pandora ! fair messenger of woe ! Full fraught with evils yet bespeaking bliss. Thy heart's the casket whence those evils flow. Thy lips the lid ; — let feelings urge amiss, Or rouse thy passion to a fervent glow, 'Tis opened, and unnumber'd mischiefs flee- But Hope, the Siren, stays and lures to thee. Dear woman ! as a mother most belov'd. From life's beginning to its closing scene. With a deep love, unshrinking and un- moved Through all the good or ills that inter- vene ; As sistei' — friend — thy truth is ever prov'd, And naught can come thy faith and love between ; Thou art the Halcyon of our youthful years, F>lending thy vision with our hopes and fears. O ! I do know how soothing 'tis to feel A mother's hand pass'd o'er my aching head ; To see a sister bend o'er me, or kneel, A "min'st'ring angel" by my restless bed, With anxious look inquiring of my weal ; The very flutter of her gown — her tread — Came like sweet music calming me to rest. And I have wept to think I was so blest. Though man hath basely squander'd a fair fame. Though oft he causes bitter tears to start. The mother still, through crime, reproach and shame, Will keep him garner'd in her heart of heart — The sister's love still cherishes his name, Though he hath riv'd affection's ties apart ; And ! through each vicissitude of life. How fondly to the husband chngs the wife. woman ! ingrate man in vain may try To pay the myriad debts that ai'e thy due ; E'en though he drain his heart's ex- chequer dry, And make his very soul a bankrupt too, Thy drafts upon his love unhonored lie ; His utmost reach of years are all too few To cancel half the gifts that thou hast given — His ev'ry joy on earth — his hope in Heaven. THE WORLD. The world ! the world ! what is the world ? Of which so much we prate. Wherein we are as atoms hurl'd, AVliose tiat is our fate. We enter on its busy maze With youthful feelings i*ife, We shun its scorn, we pray its praise, — To us the breath of hfe.
