Yet in each heart a woman's grace may lie.
Few men may comprehend her longing need--
She lives in thought, he lives in strife and deed.
His boasted deeds may live but for a day
Her purity and truth will live for aye.
The man who claims a woman's hand and heart,
Knows not what boon he craves, what precious thing;
She gives her all--he only gives a part--
She gives her freedom up and crowns him king.
'Tis true she murmurs not,--when love is there
No duty is too great, she feels no care;
'Tis only when that love is cold and dead
She feels the galling chains--the hand of lead.
And therefore do I say to you, Arline,
Of love, and not of fame, she should be queen.
'Tis love that wakes a man to woman's grace;
He first finds heaven when looking in her face,
He sees the trusting soul, the wealth untold
Of noble thoughts that God has written there.
Love binds his heart to hers with chains of gold,
And makes him comprehend the beauty rare
Of womanhood; 'tis this unlocks the door
And shows him truths he ne'er has known before.
Grieve not, Arline; your song has done some good,
An emblem of the true your life has stood.
Your aims were high; your art was truly grand,
Hearts nobler grew, Arline, at your command.
Then do not weep,--Oh, save those precious tears!
The light of heaven shines on the past few years.
And see! the shadows all have fled--the night