Nay, do not say my favourite is tame—
Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths,
And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake
The slumberer from her peaceful reverie.
The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love
Are folded round the temple of her heart,
Perpetual guardians of its altar place;
And they, of wingéd feet, who go and come,
Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze;
Unhallowed sentiments may enter not,—
Where these stand sentinels, 'tis hallowed ground.
Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet
In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not,
The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts,—
Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back
The earnest tones of your own eloquence.
But do not measure her internal strength
By any standard of man's magnitude.
Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach,—
She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been
The constant struggle of her watchful life,
To curb her will, and bend her energies,
And train her nature for her destiny;
And conscious that she hath a marshalled host,
Obedient to the mandates of her soul,
She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe.
A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue,
A look of coldness from a cherished friend,
A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due,
And makes her seem what she would scorn to be,
Imputing motives she would blush to own,—
Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms,
Is too susceptible to wounds like these;
But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee,
Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal,
The bitter anguish they can measure not.
Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame.
A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity
That sits, a queen, upon her passive face;
'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm,
Than gather laurels from the battle-field.