The Angel of Death hovers close o’er the bed; The shadow falls dark on the face; And a chill and a hush rests on everything round, Each man standing still in his place. Yet still the soul lingers, earth bound, as it seems, Till a voice whispers low, “The Last Prayer;” And those words--those grand words of our Mother, The Church-- Rise clearly and calm on the air. It seems as they rise, to Faith’s eye, thro’ the space A path for the soul they have cleft; For we know, ere Amen’s last vibration is done, With the body alone we are left. In the wards of Life’s Hospital, thus are the threads, Of Death and of Life intertwined; Grant, Lord, in our hour of need, that our souls Such vision of Angels may find! BROWN. “Alas, long-suffering and most patient God, Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us, Than even to have made us!” “How you can endure that man, is a mystery to me,” said M., to me one morning, as, in going through the wards, I paused at the bedside of one of the men, whose unattractive, even repulsive countenance fully justified the feeling. I did not answer what was the truth, “I cannot endure him,” for I had resolved on testing to the uttermost, my theory, most firmly held, that there is some good in every one--some key to the heart--some avenue by which the soul may be reached--some smouldering spark of good in darkest depths of evil; and more than this, we were not there to choose interesting cases, but to minister to all. Truly there was little room here for the romantic interest with which we are charged with investing our men. Originally of very low origin, bad habits, probably increased by the exposure of camp life, had sunk him lower; and I confess to a feeling of shame at the unconquerable disgust with which I approached him; but he was sick and suffering, and I tried to fix my mind upon the fact, rather than upon the cause which had produced it. Several months of visiting, however, proved one point, that he certainly had a heart; further than this, I could not ascertain, even after many trials, until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and said, pointing to the wall opposite his bed, “We have a light all night; I can’t sleep, and I’m all the time reading that.” I looked, and read the text in large letters, “There is more joy in heaven, over one sinner that repenteth,” &c. “Do you think there could ever be _joy_ over me?” The utter depression of the look, the hopelessness of the tone, and the mournful shake of the head, were touching in the extreme. He seemed to long to do better, and promised earnestly to seek for strength to avoid temptation. A few weeks elapsed, and on my return, the answer to “Where is Brown?” was, “In the guard-house; he got better, got a pass, and, of course, came home drunk.”