the nations turned pale at the rout;
When the clarion rang madly,
And maidens wept sadly,
And swords leapt with fire-flashes out;
One frail girl of beauty
Shrank not from her duty,
But raised her sweet voice 'bove the roar;
Her bright smiles of kindness
Played o'er the dark blindness:
'Twas Florence, the Maid of the War.

When thousands, down-falling,
For help were out-calling--
Neglected, on straw-pallet cast--
A fair form drew near them
To aid and to cheer them;
Her shadow they kissed as it passed, (_a_)
When they droopt in their sadness,
Or raved in their madness,
She left her glad home from afar
To heal up their sorrows,
And tell of bright morrows;
'Twas Florence, the Maid of the War.

(_a_) So impressed were some of the wounded soldiers in the hospital at
the kindness and gentle treatment received at the hands of Miss
Nightingale, that, unable otherwise to testify their gratitude, they
kissed her shadow as it fell upon the pillow of the pallets, on which
they lay. One poor fellow is said to have done this with his latest
breath.

IMPROMPTU:

ON BEING ASKED BY A LADY TO WRITE A VERSE IN HER ALBUM.

If I could place my thoughts upon thy heart
As on this virgin page I now indite,
What words unspoken would I not impart
Which only on my own I dare to write?

MARY:

DIED MAY 30TH, 1860.

But one short hour
She came and tripped it o'er the rugged earth,
Like a light sunbeam o'er the troubled wave;
Then shrank in silence to her little grave,
A rose-bud bitten at its opening birth.

The hand of death
Had ta'en before her one who loved her well
With all the fondness of a Mother's heart,
Whose darling's soul was made of Heav'n a part
E're sank the echoes of her own death-knell.

And so she died:
Before her mind scarce knew the way to live.
But sorrowing tears 'twere useless now to shed:
Our hopes must bloom, or mingle with the dead,
As Heav'n alone deems fit to take or give!

LINES:

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MISS ELIZABETH MARY NICHOLL
CARNE, FEBRUARY 6TH, 1868.

Oh, blessed Love! that clothes with laughing flowers
Life's martyr-crown of thorns, and raises up
The heart to hold communion with its God,
'Tis thine, this day, with golden clasp, to bind
The volume of a life, where sterling worth
And beauty go to make the story up.
A maid