quote · Legacy record

I see the ocean tossing in its strength, And with a moan that speaks of coming storms Rousing the dark waves from their lair, to greet The howling wind, that in its force comes down As with a war-cry of defiance, to The might of the proud waters; in the midst A giant rock uprears its crest, upon Whose summit stands a form, beneath whose crowned And awful brow the tempest seems to quail: The pale magnificent beauty of her face Is shaded by dark raven locks, that seem Like night descending on the setting sun— The calm rebuking chastity of eye That lays the soul so bare before its glance Is hers, and her august and stately form Towers o’er the storm and tempest like a god Serene in power. ’Tis Religion—yes, Woman thy homage is well paid to her, Who shall be as a mother to thy race; When in his dungeon the lone prisoner weeps Deserted by his kindred; hunted down Like a wild beast of prey by man, and left Year after year to count the lingering time By the slow pulse of his own failing heart; When in the bitterness of his despair He weeps, and deems himself forsaken by All living things; her soothing voice shall thrill In comfort to his heart; her form shall bend Like a pitying mother’s o’er him, and Uphold his drooping head; her hallow’d brow Shall shed its light upon his soul, and cast Around him peace ineffable.

I see the ocean tossing in its strength, And with a moan that speaks of coming storms Rousing the dark waves from their lair, to greet The howling wind, that in its force comes down As with a war-cry of defiance, to The might of the proud waters; in the midst A giant rock uprears its crest, upon Whose summit stands a form, beneath whose crowned And awful brow the tempest seems to quail: The pale magnificent beauty of her face Is shaded by dark raven locks, that seem Like night descending on the setting sun— The calm rebuking chastity of eye That lays the soul so bare before its glance Is hers, and her august and stately form Towers o’er the storm and tempest like a god Serene in power. ’Tis Religion—yes, Woman thy homage is well paid to her, Who shall be as a mother to thy race; When in his dungeon the lone prisoner weeps Deserted by his kindred; hunted down Like a wild beast of prey by man, and left Year after year to count the lingering time By the slow pulse of his own failing heart; When in the bitterness of his despair He weeps, and deems himself forsaken by All living things; her soothing voice shall thrill In comfort to his heart; her form shall bend Like a pitying mother’s o’er him, and Uphold his drooping head; her hallow’d brow Shall shed its light upon his soul, and cast Around him peace ineffable.

In print by 1888 AD · industrial

Recorded in a printed collection by this date; the original date of these words is still unknown.