Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume IX, Issue 459, 7 March 1867, Page 3

Select Poetry.

THE ANGEL OF THE EAETH. rfALD ROY, the village veteran, w Was sitting at his ease Once more within his cottage home, His children round his knees; The fire was glowing warm and bright, For 'twas a cold December night. He was beloved by old and young. As all brave men should be; And proud he was to te’l the t ,!es Of England's victory ; Of many a great and L mous fray Wheu France and England won the day, " Now, lather, 1 ' said the little ones, “ Yell us a battle tr'e, Of how the Russians sty, m'd the camp And bul'ets fell Dice b-M; And how you came to f e scar Upon your forehead iu the war. 1 This was the favorite theme of Roy’s, The story he loved best; And with a look of p: U'.e he ctroked The medal on IDs bie-ot; And then began the tale to te'l. Of how the Russians fought and fell. 11 At dead of night it was, 11 said he. But noiselessly as crept the foe, '** We heard a warning round; Onr camp in solemn si'eneo l. y Each heart expectant of the fray. "At length the thrilling signal rose— Like lions on the foe, Sprang up the British hero-hearts. And dealt the deadly blow; And wildly rose the conquering cry Ot ’’England, God, and Victory! 11 But oil! it was n fearful night. Bo many heroes bled, Resting beueatn a sheet of snow. With God's slurs overhead; And when thy l dread sortie was o’er, *1 wo hundred slept- to wake no more! *' Oh, yes, it was a fearful night; To me it seemed a dream, In which I heard the battle-cries, And'saw the sword-points gleam 1 I heard no more, I felt no pain— And 1 was counted with the slain. " At length I woke as from a trance, Tito place was strange to me; I heard around me dying groans] And cries of agony: But like au angel o’er my bed Bent low a sweet and saintly head. " I thought it was God’s angel come To take my soul to Him: And raised my hands above iny eyes But all was dark and dim, ’ ” Save round that sweet angelic face There beam’d a glory and a grace. “ She placed a cordial to my lips, ' And soothed my burning brow And whisper’d sweetly in my ear, ’ • You’ll soon be better now.’ ’ These words so made my heart rejoice I thought it was an angel’s voice.” '• Was it an angel, father dear ? ” Each earnest list’ner said; “ Was it an angel, father dear. That hover’d round your bed ? ’’ “ Yes, sweet ones, yes, of mortal birth,— It was God’s angel of the earth 1 " ’Twas she who with the holiest thoughts And purity of heart, Left her own home and native land, To do the • better part:' And if she bad not come to me. You now would orphan children be.” Oh, lovely was the grateful look Of those who heard this tale; And from each heart this prayer uprose, “ God bless Miss Nightingale 1 ” To which old Roy responded then. With solemn earnestness, “ Amen 1 ” —Sixpenny Magazine,