Man—Woman

Man's home is everywhere. On ocean's flood,Where the strong ship with storm-defying tetherDoth link in stormy brotherhoodEarth's utmost zones together,Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees wave,Where the rich diamond ripens, mid the flameOf vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave,He with bronzed cheek and daring step doth rove;He, with short pang and slight,Doth turn him from the checkered lightOf the fair moon through his own forests dancing,Where music, joy, and loveWere his young hours entrancing;And where ambition's thunder-claimPoints out his lot,Or fitful wealth allures to roam,There doth he make his home,Repining not.

It is not thus with Woman. The far halls,Though ruinous and lone,Where first her pleased ear drank a nursing mother's tone;The home with humble walls,Where breathed a parent's prayer around her bed;The valley where, with playmates true,She culled the strawberry, bright with dewThe bower where Love her timid footsteps led;The hearthstone where her children grew;The damp soil where she castThe flower-seeds of her hope, and saw them bide the blast,—Affection with unfading tint recalls,Lingering round the ivied walls,Where every rose hath in its cup a bee,Making fresh honey of remembered things,—Each rose without a thorn, each bee bereft of stings.