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II.
Women, whose rich graves deck
The work of Strife's red spade,
Shining wrecks of the wreck
This tempest of war has made,
You whose sweet pure love
Round every suffering twined,
Whose hearts, like the sky above,
Bent o'er all human kind,
Who walked through hospital streets,
'Twixt white abodes of pain,
Counting the last heart-beats
Of men who were slowly slain;
Whose thrilling voices ever
Such words of comfort bore,
That many a poor boy never
Such music had heard before;
Whose deeds were so sweet and gracious,
Wherever your light feet trod,
That every step seemed precious,
As if it were that of God;
Whose eyes so divinely beamed,
Whose touch was so tender and true,
That the dying soldier dreamed
Of the purest love he knew;
O martyrs of more than duty!
Sweet-hearted woman-braves!
Did you think, in this day's sad beauty,
That we could forget your graves?
Could you think, of these yearning hours,
None from your memory grew?
That we brought a garden of flowers,
And never a blossom for you?
Great is the brave commander,
With foemen round him slain,
But greater far, and grander,
Is she who can soothe a pain.
Not till selfish blindness
Has clouded every eye,
Not till mercy and kindness
Have flown back to the sky,
Not till a heart that is human
Within this world beats not,
Shall the kind deeds of a woman
Be ever by man forgot.
Heaven's best evangels,
Artists of mercy's arts,
Earth-types of the angels,
Take these flowers from our hearts.
The work of Strife's red spade,
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This tempest of war has made,
You whose sweet pure love
Round every suffering twined,
Whose hearts, like the sky above,
Bent o'er all human kind,
Who walked through hospital streets,
'Twixt white abodes of pain,
Counting the last heart-beats
Of men who were slowly slain;
Whose thrilling voices ever
Such words of comfort bore,
That many a poor boy never
Such music had heard before;
Whose deeds were so sweet and gracious,
Wherever your light feet trod,
That every step seemed precious,
As if it were that of God;
Whose eyes so divinely beamed,
Whose touch was so tender and true,
That the dying soldier dreamed
Of the purest love he knew;
O martyrs of more than duty!
Sweet-hearted woman-braves!
Did you think, in this day's sad beauty,
That we could forget your graves?
Could you think, of these yearning hours,
None from your memory grew?
That we brought a garden of flowers,
And never a blossom for you?
Great is the brave commander,
With foemen round him slain,
But greater far, and grander,
Is she who can soothe a pain.
Not till selfish blindness
Has clouded every eye,
Not till mercy and kindness
Have flown back to the sky,
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Within this world beats not,
Shall the kind deeds of a woman
Be ever by man forgot.
Heaven's best evangels,
Artists of mercy's arts,
Earth-types of the angels,
Take these flowers from our hearts.
[RESPONSE.]
Sound and deep our bodies sleep
'Neath a bright green covering,
Slender shades of tender blades
Over us are hovering.
'Neath a bright green covering,
Slender shades of tender blades
Over us are hovering.
Fragrant sheaves of floweret leaves
Sweetest odors fling to us,
Merry birds with music-words
Perch aloft and sing to us.
Sweetest odors fling to us,
Merry birds with music-words
Perch aloft and sing to us.
Butterflies, with wings of eyes,
Flash a kindly cheer to us,
Stalks of clover, like a lover,
Bend and whisper near to us.
Flash a kindly cheer to us,
Stalks of clover, like a lover,
Bend and whisper near to us.
And we bless, with thankfulness,
All the flowers you give to us,
And we greet, with feelings meet,
All the hours you live to us;
All the flowers you give to us,
And we greet, with feelings meet,
All the hours you live to us;
But while we, 'neath hill and lea,
Floral favors owe to you,
We above, with smiles of love,
Blooms of blessings throw to you.
Floral favors owe to you,
We above, with smiles of love,
Blooms of blessings throw to you.
Once we stood, in doubtful mood,
On a hill-top, listening—
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening:
On a hill-top, listening—
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening:
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Widowed wives, whose own good lives
Their great grief had cost to them;
Mothers who till death were true,
Maids whose loves were lost to them;
Their great grief had cost to them;
Mothers who till death were true,
Maids whose loves were lost to them;
They who strove, with deeds of love,
To keep back the dying ones,
Until they were drawn, one day,
'Mongst the heavenward flying ones;
To keep back the dying ones,
Until they were drawn, one day,
'Mongst the heavenward flying ones;
So we stood, in doubtful mood,
On a hill-top, listening,
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening;
On a hill-top, listening,
Gazing where, supremely fair,
Heaven's domes were glistening;
Wondering why there came not nigh
Some who all had dared for us,
Sad together wondering whether
Our sweet dead yet cared for us!
Some who all had dared for us,
Sad together wondering whether
Our sweet dead yet cared for us!
At a sound we turned around:
They had stolen near to us,
They whom we had yearned to see—
They who were so dear to us;
They had stolen near to us,
They whom we had yearned to see—
They who were so dear to us;
So, while you these heroes true
Praise, and with flowers cover them,
We above throw looks of love,
And caresses, over them.
Praise, and with flowers cover them,
We above throw looks of love,
And caresses, over them.
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