The Doctor.
By W. M. MacKeracher
He bent above our darling's bed
When her life was ebbing low,
And in his serious look we read
The truth we feared to know.
We knew a slender thread was all
That held her now; we saw
The dark, portentous shadow fall,
And near and nearer draw.
Our hopes were centred all in him;
We stood with bated breath
As, pitiful and calm and grim,
He fought and fought with Death.
We hung upon the desperate fight,
And saw in him combined
The tiger's stealth, the lion's might,
The man's superior mind.
We saw the fearful hate he bore
His old, relentless foe,
His beautiful compassion for
The one we cherished so.
No mortal ever waged alone
A conflict so severe;
The high-souled, stainless champion
Finds heavenly succor near.
Legions of angels to his aid
His pure devotion brought;
Celestial strength his spirit swayed;
'Twas Life that in him fought.
The awful stillness of the night!
The long and bitter hours! -
It seemed that Time had stayed his flight
To watch the battling pow'rs.
And ere the ghastly night had fled
He conquered in the strife,
And gently took the slender thread,
And drew her back to life.