  F Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses, Turn the key on your jewels to-day, And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses Braid back, in a serious way: No more delicate gloves, no more laces, No more trifling in boudoir and bower; But come with your souls in your faces— To meet the stern needs of the hour!Look around! By the torchlight unsteady, The dead and the dying seem one. What! paling and trembling already, Before your dear mission’s begun? These wounds are more precious than ghastly; Fame presses her lips to each scar, As she chants of a glory which vastly Transcends all the horrors of war. Pause here by this bedside—how mellow The light showers down on that brow! Such a brave, brawny visage!—Poor fellow! Some homestead is missing him now. Here’s another: a lad—a mere stripling— Picked up from the field, almost dead; With the blood through his sunny hair rippling From a horrible gash in the head. They say he was first in the action, Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty; He fought till he fell with exhaustion, At the gates of our fair Southern city. Fought and fell ’neath the guns of that city, With a spirit transcending his years; Lift him up in your large-hearted pity, And touch his pale lips with your tears. Touch him gently—most sacred the duty Of dressing that poor shattered hand! God spare him to rise in his beauty, And battle once more for the land! Who groaned? What a passionate murmur— “In thy mercy, O God, let me die!” Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer, That grape-shot has shattered his thigh. Fling the light on those poor furrowed features, Gray-haired and unknown—bless the brother! Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief; Let the stain tattered collar go wide, See! he stretches out blindly to search if The surgeon still stands at his side. “My son’s over yonder! he’s wounded— Oh! this ball that has broken 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 others are claiming your care; There is need of your delicate finger, For your womanly sympathy, there! There are sick ones athirst for caressing— There are dying ones raving for home— There are wounds to be bound with a blessing— And shrouds to make ready 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 crowned 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 that the task’s superhuman, But strength will be given to you To do for these dear ones what woman Alone in her pity can do. And the lips of the mothers will bless you As angels sweet visaged and pale! And the little ones run to caress you, While the wives and the sisters cry “Hail!” But e’en if you drop down unheeded, What matter? God’s ways are the best; You’ve poured out your life where ’twas needed, And He will take care of the rest. [Southern.] Banner 300,000 More
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