A HERO'S HELMET.

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume VIII, Issue 2214, 8 February 1886, Page 2

A HERO'S HELMET.

(From the Quiver.) I've brought it here myself, sir ; I'd trust

no other hands, But those that held him dying to fulfil his last commands ; " I'm going, lass," he told me, "where I'll lose this weary pain ; I thought to live and battle for some helpless one again, _ _ . But pastures fair and quiet are risßK to my view ; Maybe theres work up yonder that the Lord will let me do. Good-bye, good-bye, beloved ! O God, my dear ones bless, ! Deal gently with the widow, and guide the fatherless ; Yea, wife, the hand that brought me from out the maddened flame, jk Omnipotent abideth — through evoryj^ change the same ; 1 Though I, struck down in vigour at the prime of manhood's fall, There's One still left to comfort—th« strongest, one of all! And when His voice haß called me to service blest afar, Then take my broken helmet, crushed In with mauy a scar ; For down at our fire-station they hold such trophies dear, In memory of the fireman whose work ia over here. _ •_ You've seen the room, my lassie, whorein the helmets bide,' Unpolished, scorched and dented, and useless, side by side ; There's Jim's, who rushed so bravely through furnace fierce and wild, And lost his life in saving a little imying child ; flr There's Jack's who saved a mother* amid the crowds despair, And brought her back uninjured unto her children's prayer ; And poor old Tom's—he rescued a household one by ono, But a falling turret killed him when his work was done; My dear old mates !: our captain will gr&Uk me too ft space _ To lay my worn-out helmet within that quiet place. Don't fret, dear heart! come closer ; let's thank the Lord awhile For those young liveß He gare me from out that burning uile." So I've brought his battered liolmet; no sir, I cannot weep— Had you but seen my husband as he gently dropped asleep, Had you but watched my hero as ho neared the heavenly crown, You would understand how grandly ho

laid his armour down ; Sometimes 1 hear his whistle, and his stop across the floor, Sometimes 1 shuddering hungerJior hie '' hand upon the door ; S But I think of those fair infantfxhat h®

snatched from out the fire— How can 1 grudge my darling to tho conqueror's deathless choir ? Only,—our boys are lonely, and the tears

aro in their eyes— Sip, may the lads-come sometimes where their father's helmet lies, And read the blows and bruiseß and tho fury of the flame ? So shall his little children grow worthy of his name.