And as he weaker grew he thought
Of his dear home, far, far away;
What would he give—could it be bought—
For power to be there but a day.
To close his dying eyes where first
His infant lips had learned to pray,
To kiss the mother who had nursed
The sister who had shared his play.
He murmured: “Oh, for one sweet tone
Of voices loved in days gone by!
Dear mother, sister, oh, for one
To gently close my dying eye.”
He ceased; a face of radiant light
Was in his tent and by his side;
Each feature beautified and bright,
Free from all trace of human pride.
She points him to a heavenly home,
A house of joy not made with hands—
To the Redeemer calling, “Come!”
Who at the portal beckoning stands.
Then she unclasped the book of prayer,
Its oft turned leaves were soiled and worn,
For she had made her constant care
Our wounded soldiers night and morn.
From those dim pages she essayed
To whisper to the wounded, “Peace!”
Her gentle tones his fears allayed
And bade his soul despairing cease.
“Sister of Charity!” he cried,
“Sister and mother both thou art;
For here by my poor pallet side,
Thou’rt one with them in hand and heart.”
“Oh, hear me, and, though poor and weak,
If I survive I’ll hold her dear,
Who gently bathed my fevered cheek
And brought me consolation here.”
“It now remains for me only to tender you this humble testimonial of my regard and my hearty wishes for the fullest prosperity of the Charity Hospital and College, for the temporal and eternal welfare of the Sisterhood of the first, and the continued health and usefulness of the eminent faculty of the last.”