THE DYING BOY.
His pure cheek pressed the pillow, and its hue
So late like the fresh rose's heart, was pale,
While 'mid the clustering curls, those chill dews hung
Which fall but once.
Still o'er that beauteous brow
Where fatal languor settled, flash'd the light
Of intellect, as a faint cry burst forth,
"Oh! mother!—mother!"
Then there was a pause,
A pang too deep for words.
"Your mother sleeps
In her cold grave, my son. You stood with me
Beside its brink. Your little hand clasp'd mine
Convulsively, at those sad, solemn words,
Ashes to ashes!—when the clods fell down
Upon the coffin lid. Two months have past,
And every night your cheek was wet with tears,
For that dear mother. Say, have you forgot?
Or roves your mind in dreams? Speak, dearest one."
—And then the father rais'd that drooping head,
And laid it on his bosom, and bow'd down
A listening ear close to those murmuring lips:
But till their last faint whisper died away,
There was no sound of answer to his voice,
Save "mother! mother!"
Deem ye not he err'd!
For she who at his cradle caught the flame
Of that deep love, which time may never quench,
