THE PESTILENCE—1878.
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For in every home the faces, Of the dead lay stark and white,And the great sun glaring hotly, Down upon the maddening sight.
There the father watched and waited, Till he saw the children fall,And the mother struggling vainly, In the yellow demon's thrall.There the faces of the living, Smitten seemed with Heaven's wrath,And their wan white lips would quiver, As they trod stern Duty's path.
Mingled with the groans and anguish, That from dying lips there came,Sweetly fell the prayers and blessing, Of the martyr-saints that came,From the North, the East, the West, Forth from homes of wealth and ease,Smoothing pillows of the dying, Braving peril and disease.
Oh! the blessed name of woman, How it thrilled the sufferer's ears,How her gentle touch of blessing, Quieted the sick one's fears.And the black-robed saints who lingered, Till they fell beneath the touch,Of the grim destroyer, never, Murmuring, but loving much,
