There's need of your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy, there.
There are sick ones, athirst for caressing-
There are dying ones, raving of home-
There 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;
The nearest, as well as the farthest,
Is here with the traitor and true!
And crowned with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny, with love at the heart,
You must balsam the wounds of a nation,
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!
I grant that the task's superhuman,
But strength will be given to you
To do for these dear ones what woman
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 cry "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 Catané.(1)
THE combat raged not long, but ours the day;
And, through the hosts that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain-
Single of all his men, amid the hostile slain.
One moment on the battle's edge he stood-
Hope's halo, like a helmet, round his hair-
The 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-
tal life.
A brother bore his body from the field,
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed:
Strangers, yet sisters, who, with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb, and weeping, looked
above.
A little child strewed roses on his bier
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, Nor 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 lowly grave.
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-
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
"'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power!" Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod, And left him with his fame, his country, and his God!
Let us not weep for him, whose deeds endure !
So young, so brave, so beautiful! He died
As he had wished to die; the past is sure;
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
Change can not harm him now, nor fortune
touch him more.
And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,
Victrix et Vidua-the conflict done-
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear
That starts, as she recalls each martyred son,
No prouder memory her breast shall sway
Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latané!
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