George P. Morris

AH! woman—in this world of ours,

What gift can be compared to thee?

How slow would drag life’s weary hours,

Though man’s proud brow were bound with flowers,

And his the wealth of land and sea,

If destined to exist alone,

And ne’er call woman’s heart his own.

My mother!—at that holy name,

Within my bosom there’s a gush

Of feeling, which no time can tame,

A feeling which, for years of fame,

I would not, could not crush.

And sisters!—they are dear as life—

But when I look upon my WIFE,

My life-blood gives a sudden rush,

And all my fond affections blend,

In mother—sisters—wife—and friend.

Yes, woman’s love is free from guile,

And pure as bright Aurora’s ray—

The heart will melt before its smile,

And earthly passions fade away.

Were I the monarch of the earth,

And master of the swelling sea,

I would not estimate their worth,

Dear woman, half the price of thee.