But truly protecting that head;
And the Peace, passing earth, settles soft on our souls,
As we kneel by that hospital bed.
A bustle, a noise and a crowd, and a stir!
Some one’s dying! oh! come quickly, come!
We hasten, but Man may not stay that Dread Hand,
With its summons so swift to his Home.
The Angel of Death hovers close o’er the bed;
The shadow falls dark on the face;
And a chill and a hush rests on everything round,