Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness - how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sunless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds -a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!
Her lot is on you- to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
A true heart of hope, though hope be vain!
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things-therefore pray;
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight;
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.