O woman in our hours of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,

And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;—

When pain and anguish wring the brow,

A ministering angel thou!

And such is woman's love—the secret power

That turns the darkest to the brightest hour;

That smothes the wrinkles care has learned to plough,

And wipes the trace of anguish from the brow!

And Oh! if spite of war and wasting pain,

Feelings so noble—so divine remain,

Where were the brighter star to cheer our gloom,

Make heaven of earth, and triumph o'er the tomb!