Woman.
By Thomas Frederick Young
I've had my share of bright employ,
My share of pain and blame,
But thro' it all, I've thought, with joy,
Of tender woman's name.
Her healing tones have often brought
New gladness to my soul;
Her breath hath rent the darken'd clouds,
That often o'er it roll.
Her voice hath often cheer'd my heart,
In sickness and in pain,
And help'd me bear the surgeon's knife,
Or fever's fervid reign.
But, oh, that voice can change its tone,
That tender feeling die,
Those gentle, loving tones become
A terrorizing cry.
In kindly sound, a woman's voice
Is happiness alone;
And may it ever be my lot
To hear its tender tone.
But let me never know the thoughts
Of vengeful woman's heart,
Or hear the voice that breathes them forth,
With cold and cruel dart.
O woman, thou hast mighty pow'r
Among the sons of men,
For thou canst make deep, rankling wounds,
And heal them up again.
Oh, let thy angel nature shine,
And may we all refrain
To wake the tiger in thy breast,
Bound by a slender chain.