University of Virginia Library

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.

[RESPONSE.]