To Florence Nightingale

I am not cold, my sister, in applauseOf one whose presence honors Queenly guests;Who wears the noblest jewel of her time,And leaves her race a nobler, in her name.I do not swell thy triumphs with a wreath,Because thy weight of crowns is burthensome;And that which henceforth least can be thy needIs human praise, the cordial of weak hearts.But, lest my silence should dispraise myself,I'll help its meaning with a parable.

A scene is present to my mind, intenseWith all the joys the lyric drama gives;Its heroine, fainting 'neath her fragrant spoils,Deafened with plaudits, vexed to answer them,Since none approach the conscious gift of ArtFrom whence these splendors, like a fountain, flowed,Implores the moment to forsake the stageWhose right is what she pictures, not herself.

But lo! where one of tardier impulse sitsWith other blossoms that are hers, by right.And waits a vacant moment for his gift.She is adorned beyond her youth's desire,No place about her for a leaflet more;So, with a sudden thought, he flings the prizeTo scatter, where the patient chorus stand,A willing back-ground to her high relief.

Strange joy and wonder seize those weary heartsThat do their heavy work unrecognized."What, not illustrious, did you think of us,Mere stony echoes of your nightingale,And Genius, that doth call us for her use?You knew us faithful in the prayer, the march,The funeral dirge, and crowned us? God reward!'

Methinks, a Prima Donna of your mind,However earnest for her due repose,Would turn the eyes that con to-morrow's taskBeyond this evening's laurels, bright'ning, back,And send this Praiser happy to his homeWith one approving look, whose warmth should say:The flowers thus sent, fell nearest to my heart."