When the dark shadows of approaching ills Have fallen on the spirit, and depressed Its proudest energies—when fear instils Its dastard maxims in the noblest breast, Preventing action and denying rest— When, undefined in distance, dimly glow Spectres of evil, till, by fancy drest, The illusive phantoms on the vision grow, And giants seem to wield the impending blow— When, wearied by uncertainty, we pray For what we fear, and deprecate suspense— When gleams of hope are painful as a ray Flashing at midnight from a light intense, And leave the darkness of despair more dense— When pleasure's cup is tasteless, and we seek No more the brief relief we once drew thence— When comes no sabbath in the lingering week Harassing thought to end, or coming bliss to speak— When even “desire it faileth,” and the voice Of softest music irritates the ear— When the glad sun makes fields and groves rejoice, While to our eyes the prospect still is drear— When the mild southern gale, that used to cheer With its bland fragrance, while it cooled the brow With lingering fever wasted, pained and sere, Has lost its power to charm—'tis then we know The worth of woman's love, and what to her we owe. {435} Her holy love is like the gentle rill, Born where a fountain's waters bright are playing, (As from the birth of time they have, and will Till time shall end,) in noiseless beauty straying O'er golden sands, through verdant meads, and staying, To irrigate and freshen, as it flows Where man's proud works around in ruin lying, Proclaim the triumph of his many foes, Lust, passion, jealousy, and all the fiends he knows. And worse than these his breast will enter in, And each in turn his labored love control. The fond idolatry, which is not sin When woman loves—that yielding of the soul, Which hardly asks return, but gives the whole, He knoweth not; but, in the folds of pride, He seeks his gloomy spirit to enroll: Then her, who loves him most, he'll basely chide, And with his bitter words her constancy deride. Aye! thus infatuate, he will delight To lord it o'er the fond, devoted one Who breathes, but lives not, absent from his sight, If, for a moment, sorrow is unknown, Ambition gratified, or foes o'erthrown. But when his soul is darkened with alarms, And piercing thorns are in his pathway strown, He yields a willing pris'ner to her charms, And seeks to rest his head where love her bosom warms. But as the savage, when his eyes behold The bright creations of the artist's mind, Where light and shade the loveliest forms enfold, And chastened taste with nature's lore is joined, Pauses in ecstacy; yet seeks to find What hath his untaught spirit so subdued, But all in vain; so man, to love resigned, Can comprehend not what hath so endued Fair woman with the power to soothe his nature rude.