Still raged the dreaded pestilence,
And still the quiet stars of night
Beamed down upon the obsequies
Of those who perished in the fight.
'Mid comfort of our peaceful homes,
We heard the rattle of the car
Which bore the vanquished from the scene
Of bloodless, but relentless war.
For them no sacred bell was tolled,
Nor rose the chant of plaintive psalm;
Yet through deep mists shone guiding light
From cruel cross, to blissful palm.
Within the City Hospital,
With satchel in her willing hand,
She waited, as a soldier waits,
Intent to hear his lord's command.
She knew that fickle human aid
When sought at risks is sought in vain;
That in no human breast exists
Will to encounter death or pain.
"And can'st thou think to go?" I said,
"When all thy purposes of good
Were balked by callous ignorance,
Close-linked with base ingratitude."
She looked me calmly in the face;
A shade, which noted sad surprise
Stole o'er her placid countenance,
And spake from out her gentle eyes.
Her answer echoes down the years,
Illumes the hall in which she sat,
Breaks through all cant of class or creed:--
"_Those sick must not suffer for that._."