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by the war. A Rainy day in camp, A message from the Army, etc., are poems which many of our readers will recall with interest and pleasure.
A shorter one of equal merit and popularity, we copy not only for its brevity, but because it expresses so fully the perfect peace which filled her heart as completely as it did that of the subject of the poem:
In the hospital.
S. S-, a Massachusetts Sergeant, worn out with heavy marches, wounds and camp disease, died in — General Hospital, in November, 1863, in perfect peace.
Some who witnessed daily his wonderful sweet patience and content, through great languor and weariness, fancied sometimes they could already see the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head.
I lay me down to sleep, With little thought or care, Whether my waking find Me here-or there! A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving Breast.
My good right-hand forgets Its cunning now- To march the weary march I know not how