Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 328, February, 1843. Various

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      Honour to Woman! To her it is given

      To garden the earth with the roses of Heaven!

      All blessed, she linketh the Loves in their choir—

      In the veil of the Graces her beauty concealing,

      She tends on each altar that's hallow'd to Feeling,

      And keeps ever-living the fire!

      From the bounds of Truth careering,

      Man's strong spirit wildly sweeps,

      With each hasty impulse veering,

      Down to Passion's troubled deeps.

      And his heart, contented never,

      Greeds to grapple with the Far,

      Chasing his own dream for ever,

      On through many a distant Star!

      But Woman with looks that can charm and enchain,

      Lureth back at her beck the wild truant again,

      By the spell of her presence beguil'd—

      In the home of the Mother her modest abode,

      And modest the manners by Nature bestow'd

      On Nature's most exquisite child!

      Bruised and worn, but fiercely breasting,

      Foe to foe, the angry strife;

      Man the Wild One, never resting,

      Roams along the troubled life;

      What he planneth, still pursuing;

      Vainly as the Hydra bleeds,

      Crest the sever'd crest renewing—

      Wish to wither'd wish succeeds.

      But Woman at peace with all being, reposes,

      And seeks from the Moment to gather the roses—

      Whose sweets to her culture belong.

      Ah! richer than he, though his soul reigneth o'er

      The mighty dominion of Genius and Lore,

      And the infinite Circle of Song.

      Strong, and proud, and self-depending,

      Man's cold bosom beats alone;

      Heart with heart divinely blending,

      In the love that Gods have known,

      Souls' sweet interchange of feeling,

      Melting tears—he never knows,

      Each hard sense the hard one steeling,

      Arms against a world of foes.

      Alive, as the wind-harp, how lightly soever

      If woo'd by the Zephyr, to music will quiver,

      Is Woman to Hope and to Fear;

      Ah, tender one! still at the shadow of grieving,

      How quiver the chords—how thy bosom is heaving—