And she that ever through her home had moved With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile Of woman, calmly loving and beloved And timid in her happiness the while, Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour-- Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, And took her fair child to her holy breast, And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might As it found language:--"Are we thus oppressed? Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, And man must arm, and woman call on God! "I know what thou wouldst do;--and be it done! Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy son, The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength--if aught be strong on earth. "Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills, thy stately head, And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all but seeing _thee_ subdued-- Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. "Go forth beside the waters, and along The chamois' paths, and through the forests go; And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow, God shall be with thee, my beloved!--away! Bless but thy child and leave me--I can pray!" It is ever thus with all her women,--gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sorrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, from which she rarely departs--a heart, overflowing with tenderest affection--ill-requited--yet refusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation-- Away! to me, a woman, bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. Genius when she sings to Love is made to say-- They crown me with the glistening crown, Borne from a deathless tree; I hear the pealing music of renown-- O Love, forsake me not! Mine were a lone dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o'er the earth; From thee, from _thee_, is caught that golden glow! Shed by thy gentle eyes, It gives to flower and skies A bright new birth! _Genius singing to Love._ It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which from another pencil would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called _The Wood Walk and Hymn_; we will quote the commencement of it.