Will, can you recall
The time we were lost on the Bright Down?
Coming home late in the day,
As Susie was kneeling to pray,
Little blue eyes and white night-gown,
Saying, "Our Father, who art,—
Art what?" so she stayed with a start.
"In Heaven," your mother said softly.
And Susie sighed, "So far away!"—
'Tis nearer, Will, now, to us all.
It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep
should haunt me;
If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill:
I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt
me?
What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven, not Will!
Will, dead Will!
Lying here, I could not feel you!
Will, brave Will!
Oh, alas, for the noble end!
Will, dear Will!
Since no love nor remorse could heal you,
Will, good Will!
Let me die on your breast, old friend!
SANTA FILOMENA.
(FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.)
BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
[It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she passed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as "the Lady with the Lamp.">[
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares,
Out of all meaner cares.
Honour to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low!