Listen, sisters, while I tell you the brief history of one
Whose life's last and fullest chapter was with our war begun!
Ever since I heard her story, it has lingered in my brain,
More than music it has moved me, or a poet's haunting strain.
Young was she and very gentle—bright as sunshine, and most fair,
Like a pure and slender lily, shining in the summer air!
And God, even as the lilies, called her not to toil or spin;
Stately, sumptuous as a palace, was the home He placed her in.
Not till War aroused the Nation, knew she aught of pain or sin;
Love her path had so surrounded, evil could not enter in.
Then she said with meek elation: "I can serve my country too;
Where are sick and dying soldiers, there is work for me to do!
Oh! that I some patriot's death-bed with God's promises might cheer!
Every man for our flag fighting is to me a brother dear.
Sacred are the wounds of battle! Happy she whose cares restore
Heroes who those dangerous honors bravely won and bravely bore!"
Silken robes and costly jewels no more that slight form array:
Clad in coarse and homely garments goes she on her chosen way,
And intent upon her purpose, practice to acquire and skill,
In the hospitals of her city, serves with a devoted will.
Many weeks she goes unwearied with a pale and earnest face,
Making by her spirit's brightness, sunshine in the shadiest place.
Oh! the little moaning children followed her with wistful eyes,
Wheresoever went her presence, there for them was Paradise!
Calm, unshrinking, she stood steadfast where the stoutest well might swerve:
Strong alone through aspiration, God and Fatherland to serve!
Oh! that look of softest pity! Oh! those tender tones of hers!
Blessed is the sorest sufferer when to him she ministers!
Never failed her loving patience with the longest tales of woe,
And a balm of surest healing was her tears' compassionate flow.
Ah! she was too sympathetic for this face-to-face with pain,
And the strength she gave to others, slowly her own strength did drain.
And one morning, all remember, as she went from bed to bed,
How her countenance grew holy, like a saint's, transfigured.
And her voice that ever held you spell-bound as with a caress,
Thrilled the inmost depths of being with its marvellous tenderness.
Minist'ring, as one inspired, nought was there could her appal,
Loathing and disgust subduing, spirit ruled her senses all!
But she not a pace behind her, left the hospital's wide gate,
Ere her body weighed upon her, with a cruel, crushing weight.
And the streets they seemed to lengthen, lengthen, lengthen evermore,
As her trembling limbs so slowly bore her to her father's door.
Drooping, sought she then her pillow, whispering: "'Tis so good to rest,"
And a smile and sigh commingling, more than words relief expressed.
Four long, silent days she rested, while but her unconscious breath
Gave assurance to the watchers that the sleep was not of death.
Then that heart, worn out with aching, from its aching e'er did cease,
And upon her brow Death deepened, an eternal smile of Peace!
Think you not, who hear her story, that she served her country well?
Died for it as truly, bravely, as though sword in hand she fell?
'Mid the gloom and desolation of our country's passing night—
Ever in my thoughts she shineth, un undying beacon-light!
Consecreate through faithful spirits, passed in glory from our sight,
In God's time the Cause shall triumph that our feeblest giveth might.