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the dying boy.
Of patient suffering in her pallid face, For she had struggled earnestly, till faith Could spread its eagle pinions and soar up, From the cold bed where she must lay her boy, To his bright spirit-home. Oh, only they Who with a mother's speechless agony, Have watched the life-blood ebb, and the young cheek Grow pale; counted each feeble pulse, and seen The full round limbs shrink in undue proportion—Only they, can tell a mother's sorrow, And may own, how hard to bow submissively, And say, "Thy will be done."
Hush! he is waking, The dim eyes re-open, and the white lips, Long sealed as though in death, find utterance. She had thought he slept, but when he turned Those soft dark orbs to hers, she saw that tears Were on their silken fringe, and o'er his face Passed a deep shade of gloom. "Mother," he said, And the faint tones were tremulous with grief, "Mother, I know how soon the time will come When I must die; and as I lay but now,
