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Wipe the sweat from his brow with your 'kerchief
Let the tatter'd old collar go wide ! See! he stretches out blindly to see if
The surgeon still stands by his side : " My son's over yonder—he's wounded—
O this ball has entered my thigh!" And again he burst out all a tremble,
" In Thy mercy, O God, let me die !"
Pass on: It is useless to linger
While other are claiming your care; There is need for your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympatic there: There are sick ones athirst for caressing ;
There are dying ones raving of home There are wounds to be bound with a blessing
And shrouds to make readj' for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death in its ghastliest view; The nearest as well as the farthest
Is here with the traitor and true; And crown'd with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny with love at the heart; You must balsam the wounds of a nation,
Nor falter nor shrink from your part.
Up and down through the wards where the fever
Stalks noisome and gaunt and impure, You must go with your steadfast endeavor
To comfort, to counsel, to cure ! I grant you the task is superhuman,
But strength will be given to you To do for those lov'd ones, what woman
Alone in her pity can do.