180
ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL.
The victims of disease, writhing with pain;
And low faint groans, and breathings short and deep,
Each gasp a heartfelt agony, were all
That broke the stillness.—There was one, whose brow
Dark with hot climates, and gashed o'er with scars,
Told of the toiling march, the battle-rush,
Where sabres flashed, the red shots flew, and not
One ball or blow but did destruction's work:
But then his heart was high, and his pulse beat
Proudly and fearlessly:—now he was worn
With many a long day's suffering,—and death's
A fearful thing when we must count its steps!
And this was, then, the end of those sweet dreams
Of home, of happiness, of quiet years
Spent in the little valley which had been
So long his land of promise? Farewell all
