Had I an artist's pencil, I might sketch Her as she was, in her young matronhood Graceful and dignified, serene and fair. — I well remember, when at Sabbath-morn,
With pious zeal, the rural church she sought, Our rural church,— by rocks o'er-canopied,— Where with her stately husband and their group Of younglings bright, each in the accustom'd seat,
How many a glance was toward her beauty bent Admiringly. In those primeval days The aristocracy that won respect,
Sprang not from wealth alone, but laid its base In goodness and in virtue. Thus she held Her healthful influence in society Without gainsaying voice.
The polity Of woman's realm,— sweet home,— those inner cares And countless details that promote its peace, Prosperity and order, were not deem'd
Beneath the highest then, nor wholly left To hireling hands. This science she upheld, And with her circle of accomplishments And charms so mingled it, that all combined
Harmoniously. That energy and grace So often deem'd the exclusive property Of youth's fresh season, or of vigorous prime,
She brought to Age, an unencumbered dower, Making the gift of being beautiful, Even beyond ninety years. And though the change
Of mortal life, dispers'd her cherish'd band, And some had gone their own fair nests to build And some arisen to mansions in the skies Alone, yet undismay'd, her post she kept,
Guiding a household in the same good ways Of order and of hospitality. So, when with mild decline, the sunset came, Her powers still unimpair'd, all willingly
As a confiding and obedient child Goes to its father's house, she went above.
Cookies on Poetry Cove