« EelmineJätka »
There's need of your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy, there. There are sick ones, atbirst for caressing
There are dying ones, raving of homeThere are wounds to be bound with a blessing
And shrouds to make ready for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death, in its ghastliest view;
Is here with the traitor and true !
Made sunny, with love at the heart,
Nor falter, nor shrink from your part !
Up and down, through the wards, where the fever
Stalks noisome, and gaunt, and impure, You must go, with your steadfast endeavor,
To comfort, to counsel, to cure !
But strength will be given to you
Alone in her pity can do.
And the lips of the mothers will bless you
As angels, sweet-visaged and pale ! And the little ones run to caress you, While the wives and sisters
"Hail !! But e'en if you drop down unheeded,
What matter? God's ways are the best ! You have poured out your life where 'twas needed,
And He will take care of the rest !
The Burial of Latané. (11)
The combat raged not long, but ours the day;
And, through the hosts that compassed us around,
Unburied on the field he died to gain-
One moment on the battle's edge he stood
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hairThe next beheld him, dabbled in his blood, Prostrate in death; and yet, in death how fair ! Even thus he passed through the red gates
of strife, From earthly crowns and palms, to an immor
A brother bore his body from the field,
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,
A little child strewed roses on his bier
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Tor yet more fragrant than his life sincere, That blossomed with good actions - brief, but
whole; The aged matron and the faithful slave Approached, with reverent feet, the hero's
No man of God might say the burial rite
Above the “rebel”—thus declared the foe That blanched before him in the deadly fight; But woman's voice, with accents soft and low, Trembling with pity-touched with pathos-
read Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
66'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power !”
Softly the promise floated on the air,
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,
Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure !
So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died
Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
touch him more.
And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,
Victrix et Vidua—the conflict done-
No prouder memory her breast shall sway