Woman is What Man Doth Make Her. By Hugh Karrar M'Dermott.
What the flower's to the bee, What the blossom's to the tree,
What the zephyr's,to the day In the bright and glowing May,
What the sunlight's to the shade, What the pansy's to the glade,
What the magnet's to the pole, What the spirit's to the soul,
What soft music's to the breast, What sweet dreaming is to rest,
What the robe of incense high Is to seraph in the sky,-
This, all this, is womankind To man's glory of the mind.
Oh, the duty that we owe To this angel here below!
Let affections come unsonght. Make her queen of every thought;
Hold her pride within thy care, All thy gladness let her share;
Say not ever love in vain; Bliss of love! all love is gain!
Let no word of tongue or eye Lance or fret the sacred tie;
Stronger than the giant's hand Is the waving of her wand.
long and empty is the day With fair woman far away;
As we contemplate her hence, Rueful grows the shore intense.
Pure And white as driven snow. Let her naught but mercy know.
Woman to thy bosom bind, Mould her to a lofty mind;
Don't decry her, don't forsake her, Woman is what man doth make her.