Thou, who didst bless the merciful of old! So prayed the Lady, watching tearfully Her gentle moving onward, till the night Had veiled her wholly, and the vision passed. Then once again the solemn whisper came: "So in the darkest path of man's despair, Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth, Lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow To pass through scenes of horror and affright Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her All things are sanctified, for all are good. Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care: Nothing so great, but she may bear her part. No life is vain: each hath his place assigned: Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God." And there was silence, but the Lady made No answer, save one deeply-breathed "Amen." And she arose, and in that darkening room Stood lonely as a spirit of the night-- Stood calm and fearless in the gathered night-- And raised her eyes to heaven. There were tears Upon her face, but in her heart was peace, Peace that the world nor gives nor takes away! _April 10, 1856._ [Illustration] THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. Hark, _said the dying man_, _and sighed_, To that complaining tone-- Like sprite condemned, each eventide, To walk the world alone. At sunset, when the air is still, I hear it creep from yonder hill: It breathes upon me, dead and chill, A moment, and is gone. My son, it minds me of a day Left half a life behind, That I have prayed to put away For ever from my mind. But bitter memory will not die: It haunts my soul when none is nigh: I hear its whisper in the sigh Of that complaining wind. And now in death my soul is fain To tell the tale of fear That hidden in my breast hath lain Through many a weary year: Yet time would fail to utter all-- The evil spells that held me thrall, And thrust my life from fall to fall, Thou needest not to hear. The spells that bound me with a chain, Sin's stern behests to do, Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain, A heavy burden grew-- Till from my spirit's fevered eye, A hunted thing, I seemed to fly Through the dark woods that underlie Yon mountain-range of blue. Deep in those woods I found a vale No sunlight visiteth, Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale; Where never comes the breath Of summer-breeze--there in mine ear, Even as I lingered half in fear, I heard a whisper, cold and clear, "This is the gate of Death. "O bitter is it to abide In weariness alway: At dawn to sigh for eventide, At eventide for day. Thy noon hath fled: thy sun hath shone. The brightness of thy day is gone: What need to lag and linger on Till life be cold and gray?