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The Dying Boy.
551
"I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death P
Mother! your hand—
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death P
Mother! your hand—
"Here—lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!—say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!—say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?
"Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!
"Oh, at the time of prayer,
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet—
You'll miss me there!"—
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet—
You'll miss me there!"—
"Father! I'm going home!
To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.
To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.
"I must be happy then:
From pain and death you say I shall be free—
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!"—
From pain and death you say I shall be free—
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!"—
"Brother! the little spot
I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers
Forget it not!
I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers
Forget it not!
"Plant there some box or pine—
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!"—
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!"—
"Sister! my young rose-tree—
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give it thee.
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give it thee.
"And when its roses bloom,
I shall be gone away—my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?"
I shall be gone away—my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?"
