the dying boy.
35
And thought of the sweet spring and summer days Which, each revolving year, make the green earth So beautiful, and how they all would pass Over my grave, and I should see them not—I thought how sad it were to be forgotten. Will it be so, dear mother? I would care But little if all others should forget; But I was thinking, that you too, perhaps, When you grew older, and your tears were dried, And I had slumbered long, you might forget The timid boy who wandered by your side In the sweet garden paths at close of day,Or gathered wild flowers in the shady nooks Of the old pasture meadow; he who kneltEach morn and eve, to lisp his childish prayers Low at your knee, and grasped your gentle hand, When the clear Sabbath bells rang joyously, To seek our heavenly Father's hallowed house; You might forget the hour when he was wont To come with bounding step and gleesome call, From his wood rambles to your open arms. Will it be so, dear mother? Must I die, And you forget your child?"
