Poems (Stephens)/The burning orphan asylum

by Eliza Jane Stephens

THE BURNING ORPHAN ASYLUM.

What is that sharply crackling sound
 That's bursting on the midnight air,
That stifling smoke, so dense and dark,
 And now that fearful, blinding glare.

There's shouting, screaming, wildest fright,
 And haste and confusion most dire;
And weeping, praying on every side,
 The Orphan Home is all on fire.

And men are toiling with their might,
 And devising every way,
Endangering limb, and even life,
 To save those children if they may.

And silent women rush to rooms,
 And clasp those little ones in arms,
And bear them out through heat and smoke,
 And hush their cries, sooth their alarms.

Now there's rejoicing that all are saved,
 The work was gladly, nobly done.
The poor blind sister, where is she?
 The best beloved is the missing one.

'Twas she who nursed when dread disease
 Assailed them all as with a blight,
And watching o'er those helpless ones,
 She gave for them her precious sight.

And swift to her rescue they fly,
 To find her sitting, calm, alone,
Waiting whatever may befall,
 In peace like that the saints have known.

They catch her up with joy elate,
 Though death seems on the backward route,
They brave the peril and are blest,
 And now ascends a thankful shout.

Blest attributes of humanity
 Are those of sympathy and love,
Implanted deep in every breast
 By Infinite wisdom above.