(_From a graceful little volume, entitled, "Poetical Recreations," by
C.A. Hulbert._)


Oh, who shall say that woman's ear
Thrills to the minstrel's voice in vain?
She hath a balm diffusing tear,
She hath a softer, holier strain--
A cheering smile of hope to give,
A voice to bid the mourner live.

She hath a milder beam of praise,
Her heart a soil where Truth may bloom,
And while her drooping flowers we raise,
They yield us back a rich perfume.
Her influence bids our talents rise
'Neath Love and Fancy's native skies!

I heard an infant's lisping tongue
Address his mother's smiling eye,
And fondly ask his favourite song--
His soul seemed wrapt in harmony;
She sung--and gave the cheering kiss,
Which made the poet's fortune his.

His mother saw his fancies stray
To fragrant poesy, and leave
The dull pursuit of fortune's way,
'Till some would chide and others grieve;
But she had marked the rising flame,