Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Dying Girl
THE DYING GIRL
Written at the Age of Sixteen
Earth is fading—heaven beaming—
All around grows dark and chill;
White robed phantoms near me streaming—
Streaming, streaming, streaming still.
Clasp me, mother, clasp me lightly,
Lest you press the soul too soon
From the form that once shone brightly—
Quenched its brilliance in its noon.
Kiss me, father, kiss me sweetly;
Smoothe the ringlets from my brow—
Quick—oh quick—for fleetly, fleetly
Speeds life’s current from me now!
Where is Harry, where is Harry?
Far from Stella’s weeping bed;
Who to him my words shall carry—
Who shall tell him I am dead!
Far away, he thinks me blooming
Into beauty proud and dear,
While before my orbs are looming
Visions of the shroud and bier.
Take these withered lilies to him—
Whence this tremor, whence this gloom?
Show the buds, all drooping, show him—
Let him strew them o’er my tomb.
Icy drops upon me gleaming—
Slower, slower pants my breath;
Tell me, mother, am I dreaming—
Tell me, am I tasting death?
I am going! I am going!
Far from Harry—far from home,
Where eternal truth is glowing—
Where the meteor angels roam.
The spoiler comes, on flashing pinions,
Thirsting is his eager dart;
Now he beckons to his minions—
Now his keen lance drinks my heart!
Farewell, father! farewell, mother!
Catch my latest look and sigh;
Farewell, Harry—more than brother—
God of life! I die—I die!