It is not desirable to enter upon any description of the sorrowful scene of excited and undisciplined grief which followed; three hours afterwards, we succeeded in inducing her to take an anodyne and go to bed. Character, mental training, and spiritual attainment, are never more clearly shown than in the manner in which a great sorrow is borne; much, of course, depends upon temperament, but as a rule, I think we may safely affirm, that the most violent outward expression has the least inward root; that the griefs which crush and slowly sap life, are seldom noisily and vehemently vented in their first freshness. That night, as I sat where the soft shadows of summer moonlight played peacefully in and out among grand old trees, my thoughts naturally clung to the scenes through which I had been passing, and dwelt upon those two who had both, though so differently, that day “entered into Life;” the one, through the Golden Gate of Baptism; the other, through “the grave and gate of death;” and in the calmness of that still night, the fervent wish arose, that they might both attain a “joyful resurrection, for His merits, Who died, and was buried, and rose again for us.” THE TWO ANGELS. U. S. A. HOSPITAL, August, 1862. ’Tis a hospital ward, and the sun’s cheerful rays Light up many a bed of pain, As the sufferers, seeking so sadly for ease, Turn wearily once and again. A small group is gathered round one of the beds, Come with me, and stand by its side, Whilst the voice of the Priest softly sounds on the air As he pours the Baptismal tide. By pillows supported, in sore strife for breath, See one enter that Army within; Whose Captain accepts all the maim’d and the halt, Whose service is no worth to Him. O, wonderful Mercy, unspeakable Love! Who gave all His best for our sake; The few faded fragments and dregs of lost life, When offered, at latest, will take. Holy words are pronounced, and his brow with wet Cross, Is sparkling with strange, wondrous light; Whence comes It? We see by that awe-stricken face That no longer, as erst, is it night. There are moments in life, when, from earthly thoughts freed, To our sight purer vision is given; Can we doubt that bright Presence--the Angel of Life-- As It floats thro’ the air, is from Heaven? White Wings are extended--no poet’s mere dream-- But truly protecting that head; And the Peace, passing earth, settles soft on our souls, As we kneel by that hospital bed. A bustle, a noise and a crowd, and a stir! Some one’s dying! oh! come quickly, come! We hasten, but Man may not stay that Dread Hand, With its summons so swift to his Home.