Florence Nightingale and her Praisers

Ir you debase the sex to elevateOne of like soul and temper with the rest,You do but wrong a thousand fervent hearts,To pay full tribute to one generous breast.

Mercy belongs to us from ancient days—Yea—when the Human and Divine did part,God left the boon of pity to the world,And left it garnered in a woman's heart.

In the old warrior times of feud and fire,When the fierce world in armour watched and slept,Maidens, high-hearted, left the sumptuous court,And with pure hands the sick man's pillow kept.

In those rude ages, they were fain to shieldTheir holy virtue 'neath monastic vows,Now, England's daughter, without fear or blush,To the wide world her valiant zeal avows.

Nay, frailer women, strong in love alone,Have followed as the blast of battle led,Pressing on spear and sword the ill-armed breast,Content to perish where their soldier bled.

She has sprung forward, an enfranchised streamThat runs its errand in the face of day;And where new blessings mark its course benign,Men yield approval to th' unwonted way.

But she had freedom—hearts akin to hersAre held as springs shut up, as fountains sealed,The weighty masonry of life must partBefore their hidden virtue be revealed.

Women who weave in hope the daily web,Who leave the deadly depths of passion pure,Who hold the stormy powers of will attent,As Heaven directs, to act, or to endure;

No multitude strews branches in their way,Not in their praise the loud arena strives,Still as a flameless incense rises upThe costly patience of their offered lives.

Such love bears not the sunlight on its breast,But by the devious conduit underneath,It reaches you, unrecognized, unknownSave in the brow suffused, and dewy breath.

Then count not the heroic heart aloneIn those whom action and result make great,Since the sublime of Nature's excellenceLies in enduring, as achieving Fate.