The Hospital. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

Still she was fair, although the bloom of youth
Had yielded to the hectic of disease,
And fever lighted up her brilliant eye,
While all dishevelled hung each silken tress
Dark as the raven's wing. Poor erring girl,
'Twas sad to think that one still unprepared,
So young, so lovely, should be called to die! —
It was the very spring-time of the year,
And while all else was bursting into life
She faded day by day. The earliest flowers
I took her oftimes, and would read to her
In the blest pages of that sacred volume,
Which while it shows the sinner to himself
Points to the sinner's friend. To death resigned
With fixed attention she would hear me speak
Of Him who died a sinful world to save,
Of the good shepherd, who doth leave his flock
To fetch the lost sheep to the fold again.
She owned her ignorance, confessed her guilt,
And as her strength permitted would divulge
The melancholy history of her life,
Short but replete with woe; how she was driven
From the paternal roof while yet a child
To earn a livehood, with not a guide
To uphold her footsteps in the paths of virtue
It was no marvel that she fell a prey
To the insidious arts of one who saw
And wooed but too desert her — destitute
No house to shelter, and exposed unfriended,
To the severity of the bleak winter,
Cold, laid foundation of the deep decline,
Which robbed her of the remnant of her days.
* * * * *
But as the lamp of life was waning fast,
A brighter beam illumed her dying bed,
The light of truth, and blessed be the hand
Which raised the veil from her deluded eyes.
Blest be the Power that gave her faith to east
Her soul on His compassion who invites
'The chief of sinners,' and will cast out none.
— The last time I beheld her she exprest
Unfeigned gratitude for my poor service,
She then was building on 'the rock of ages'
For pardon, and for peace! — herself forgiven,
Freely she pardoned those who most had wronged her.
And when at length, her eyes were closed in death
It did please God to waken late remorse
In her betrayer's breast! — Struck with dismay
Force scarce compelled him to desert her coffin,
Frantic with grief he claimed her as his owu,
And did accuse himself, past all upbraidings.
* * * * *
Now low she lies in yonder narrow grave,
At her request I saw that grave-bed dug,
Prepared her shroud, and gathered loveliest flowers
Of early spring to strew her pallid corse.
I never look unto the lowly spire.
In that green churchyard, but methinks I fancy
Her spirit soaring, freed from sin and pain,
Far far beyond it in the realms of glory!