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Woman.
by George Pope MorrisAh, woman!--in this world of ours,
What boon can be compared to thee?--
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own!
My mother!--At that holy name,
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame--
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not, crush!
And sisters!--ye are dear as life;
But when I look upon my wife,
My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother--sisters--wife and friend!
Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
And base-born passions fade away!
Were I the monarch of the earth,
Or master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman, half the price of thee.