The poem titled “The Angel Watchers” comes from a private collection and is a precious piece of history. It was penned presumably in July of 1863, as indicated at the top of the page. On one of the pages, the name “J. C. Lovejoy” is inscribed, sparking curiosity about the author’s identity. Months after I posted this poem on Spared & Shared, I received a solid clue (see comments) from Eric Pominville who suggested the poem was written by Joseph Cammett Lovejoy (1805-1871), the older brother of Congressman Owen Lovejoy. According to Eric, who has been researching Armory Square General Hospital, he reports that Amanda Akin Stearns (1909) memoir, The Lady Nurse of Ward E, Mr. Lovejoy was a frequent visitor at Armory Square and was well known to the hospital staff. Writing under the date May 14, 1863: “A gallant old gentleman in Congress (brother of Owen Lovejoy, the noted Abolitionist) was introduced to us by Mrs. [Henrietta Crosby] Ingersoll. He says, “We can take care of the soldiers, and he will take care of us,” so he comes quite often to accompany us in a walk after supper through the Capitol grounds. He writes verses, and is a friend of Mrs. Sen. [Henry Smith] Lane. Tomorrow for diversion, he is to take a party of us to another hospital, where they have theatrical entertainments.” Akin, The Lady Nurse of Ward E, (1909), p. 27-28.

I have searched the internet extensively to look for evidence that this poem was published at some time but could not find it. That search included newspapers and “Google Books,” etc. The Armory Hospital was established in 1862. It was constructed on land adjacent to the Smithsonian Institution, approximately where the National Air and Space Museum is today. There was an anniversary celebration at the hospital in August 1863. Perhaps that is when this photograph was taken and was the occasion for the poem.

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The Angel Watchers

At the Armory Hospital, in this city, we have a company of the celestials, a group of cultivated, refined voluntary nurses, who come as all heavenly blessings come, “without money and without price” and they are above all price. They have an enthusiasm that never falters, a kindness like the gentle rains, and a wisdom and prudence that rarely errs. Private Letter.

Descend from heaven some sacred fire,
some magic hand touch every string,
And wake to life the lisping lyre,
That would its grateful incense bring.

Lo! from the gory fields of death
The long and solemn trains move on,
Each gazer, silent, holds his breath
And gives a tear to valor won.

That bleeding train by wounded filled
Halts where the House of Mercy stands,
And ever nerve by anguish thrilled
Is quickly soothed by angel hands.

The hoarse rough notes of brazen war
The bursting shell the booming gun,
Are changed for voices, sweeter far
Than whispering streams that sparkling run.

By every couch of torturing pain,
Where restless turns the sufferer o’er,
An angel stands, and glad to gain
The bliss, the oil and wine to pour.

Woman, since first by morning light
She stood beside the Sacred Tomb,
Has born on Earth a sunbeam bright
Midst sorrow, darkness, grief and gloom.

Not wounds alone her hands can heal,
The spirit too hath sharper woes
Each quivering heart doth keenly feel
That from each couch a cripple goes.

By night and day with ceaseless care
On all these bleeding “boys” they wait,
The sufferer soothed by hands so fair
Seems lingering at the heavenly gate.

When gentle sleep, that heavenly balm
Spreads o’er him round her raven wing
When fevered pulse grows soft and calm
And gentle as the voice of spring

With whispered words and careful tread
That graceful form is hovering round
The hero facies near his bed
The thrice loved forms of home are found

In dreams, on Mother, Wife, and Sister calls
And bids them see the thousands slain
Points out the spot where he too falls.
But lives in dreams to fight again.