The Wounded

In one dim church, after a bloody fray,
Lie wounded men with swathed limbs, and grey,
Wan, fainting faces, down the solemn nave :
Women are ministering all they crave,
Sisters of Mercy, daughters of the Lord I
Many will die, for all they may afford
Of refuge ; though the healers with sharp pain
Have striven to heal them, all will be in vain!
Feebly in sinking cling their hearts to some
Afar, who wait them in a beloved home,
Who with pale cheek, with blanched, quivering lips
Will tear the letter dim with life's eclipse.
Mournful the sufferers that eve foresee,
Not far from now, when dear ones with a tree,
There in the fatherland, in Germany,
Glistering *oys and trinkets will entwine ;
With twigs of fir, where coloured tapers fine
Glisten less lovely than the children's eyes,
Who with sweet exclamations of surprise
Find out new blisses ; widows worn the while
Melting a rising sob into a smile ;
For well they know that, lying yonder, he,
On whom the nightly snow falls quietly,
Would love to feel their little mutual treasure
Passed even this Christmas with an all unclouded pleasure !

Ah ! but the church — it is a ghastly scene :
Consoling ministers of mercy lean
Over confused shapes by candle gleam :
These have rent clothing soiled, with dull red stream
Of ebbing life discoloured ; while some die
In silence, others with a tortured cry
Rend the foul air : yet others near the door,
A variegated medley, strew the floor
(Teuton with Frank, turban with helmet blent,
In diverse garb and war-accoutrement).
Conversing, grimed with battle smoke, and dust
Of toilsome march; they munch the wheaten crust,
Or moodily exhale a soothing mist.
Or drink from glimmering metal as they list.
But yonder, over the faint sufterers.
Half in dim shining, half in shadow, stirs
With wandering wind some painted canvas, torn
In that blind havoc of mad battle born:
Surely it is the Sufferer Divine
Upon the cross ! while under Him recline
These last inheritors of agony.
Behold, the piteous portraiture on high
Hath in that very heart of Christ a rent,
That tells of where one erring bullet went !