Narrow beds by one another—
White and low;
Through them softly as in church aisles,
Nurses go—
For the hot lips ice-drops bringing,
Culd and clear;
Or white eye-lids gently closing,
For the bier.
Strong men, in a moment smitten
Down from strength.
Brave men, now in anguish praying
Death at length.
Barus the night-lamp where the watchers,
By the bed,
Write for many a waiting loved one—
"He is dead!"
One lies there in utter weakness—
Shattered, faint—
But his brow wears calm befitting
Martyred saint;
And although the lips must quiver,
They can smile,
As he says, "This will he over
In a while.
"As the old Crusaders, weeping
In delight,
Knelt when Zion's holy city
Rose in sight,
So I fling aride my weapon,
From the din,
To the quietness of Heaven
Entering in.
"Standing in the solemn shadow
Of God's hand,
Love of glory fading from me,
Love of land.
I thank God that he has let me
Strike one blow
For His poor and helpless people,
Ere I go."
White and whiter grows the glory
On his brow,
Does he see the Towers of Zion
Rising now?
Stands the doctor, weary, hurried,
By his bed:
"Here is room for one more wounded—
He is dead."