She round thy sweet, domestic bower
The wreath of changeless love shall twine,
Watch for thy step at vesper hour,
And blend her holiest prayer with thine.
Deal gently, thou, when, far away,
'Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove,
Nor let thy tender care decay;
The soul of woman lives in love.
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear,
Unconscious, from her eyelids break,
Be pitiful, and soothe the fear
That man's strong heart may ne'er partake.
A mother yields her gem to thee,
On thy true breast to sparkle rare;
She places 'neath thy household tree
The idol of her fondest care;
And, by thy trust to be forgiven
When judgment wakes in terror wild,
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven,
Deal gently with the widow's child.
* * * * *
=_William O. Sutler,[80] 1793-._=
From "The Boatman's Horn."
=_336._=
O Boatman, wind that horn again;
For never did the listening air
Upon its lambent bosom bear
So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain.
What though thy notes are sad and few,
By, every simple boatman blown?
Yet is each pulse to nature true,
And melody in every tone.
How oft, in boyhood's joyous day,
Unmindful of the lapsing hours,
I've loitered on my homeward way,
By wild Ohio's bank of flowers,
While some lone boatman from the deck
Poured his soft numbers to that tide,
As if to charm from storm and wreck
The boat where all his fortunes ride!
Delighted Nature drank the sound,
Enchanted Echo bore it round
In whispers soft and softer still,
From hill to plain, and plain to hill.
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