FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE AND HER PRAISERS.
41
Nay, frailer women, strong in love alone,Have followed as the blast of battle led,Pressing on spear and sword the ill-armed breast,Content to perish where their soldier bled.
She has sprung forward, an enfranchised streamThat runs its errand in the face of day;And where new blessings mark its course benign,Men yield approval to th' unwonted way.
But she had freedom—hearts akin to hersAre held as springs shut up, as fountains sealed,The weighty masonry of life must partBefore their hidden virtue be revealed.
Women who weave in hope the daily web,Who leave the deadly depths of passion pure,Who hold the stormy powers of will attent,As Heaven directs, to act, or to endure;
No multitude strews branches in their way,Not in their praise the loud arena strives,Still as a flameless incense rises upThe costly patience of their offered lives.
Such love bears not the sunlight on its breast,But by the devious conduit underneath,
