Poems (Douglas)/The Dying Boy
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For works with similar titles, see The Dying Boy.
The Dying Boy.
"My mother dear," said a sickly boy,
His pale face glowing with sudden joy,
As the breeze fanned back from a brow too fair
The clustering locks of his raven hair,
And his dark eye gleamed with as clear a light
As eve's sweet star when it shines most bright—
His pale face glowing with sudden joy,
As the breeze fanned back from a brow too fair
The clustering locks of his raven hair,
And his dark eye gleamed with as clear a light
As eve's sweet star when it shines most bright—
"My mother dear, it is spring-time now,
I feel its fresh breath on my burning brow,
I see the meadows in light green clad—
O mother, my heart feels strangely glad;
And soon, perhaps, on yon gowany lea
I shall join my comrades in health and glee.
I feel its fresh breath on my burning brow,
I see the meadows in light green clad—
O mother, my heart feels strangely glad;
And soon, perhaps, on yon gowany lea
I shall join my comrades in health and glee.
"That breeze has lingered in yon bright bowers,
Laden with incense from early flowers,
For the odours of violet and primrose pale
Are wafted here on the gentle gale,
And the music of yonder streamlet brings
Back to this bosom such dreamy things
Laden with incense from early flowers,
For the odours of violet and primrose pale
Are wafted here on the gentle gale,
And the music of yonder streamlet brings
Back to this bosom such dreamy things
"Of other times, when the summer day
We used to spend on yon sunny brae,
And gather gowans from grassy meads,
For sunny faced girls to string for beads;
I would leave this earth for a happier clime,
But mother, oh, not in the sweet spring-time.
We used to spend on yon sunny brae,
And gather gowans from grassy meads,
For sunny faced girls to string for beads;
I would leave this earth for a happier clime,
But mother, oh, not in the sweet spring-time.
"And I love to sport in the summer air,
When the sun shines bright and the earth looks fair,
And I love to play when the yellow light
Of autumn is shed upon tower and height,
And the joyous face of each playmate seems
Brightly tinged with the sunset beams.
When the sun shines bright and the earth looks fair,
And I love to play when the yellow light
Of autumn is shed upon tower and height,
And the joyous face of each playmate seems
Brightly tinged with the sunset beams.
"And 'tis sweet when autumn hours are gone,
And the winter darkling nights steal on,
To sit with friends round the cheerful hearth,
When the storm without cannot stop our mirth.
Ah! mother 'tis hard indeed to say
What season I'd like to be called away.
And the winter darkling nights steal on,
To sit with friends round the cheerful hearth,
When the storm without cannot stop our mirth.
Ah! mother 'tis hard indeed to say
What season I'd like to be called away.
"'Tis a withering thought for the youthful heart
So soon from this earth and its joys to part,
When its every tendril would seem entwined
Round the loved and the lovely we leave behind—
Thus fondly the things of Time we grasp,
And hold to the last with an ivy clasp."
So soon from this earth and its joys to part,
When its every tendril would seem entwined
Round the loved and the lovely we leave behind—
Thus fondly the things of Time we grasp,
And hold to the last with an ivy clasp."
The spring is past—the summer's glow
Sheds a radiance bright on all below—
A light breeze sweeps o'er a sunny lea,
Where young ones sport, and the voice of glee
Is borne to a spot, where a mother weeps
O'er a new made grave where her fair boy sleeps.
Sheds a radiance bright on all below—
A light breeze sweeps o'er a sunny lea,
Where young ones sport, and the voice of glee
Is borne to a spot, where a mother weeps
O'er a new made grave where her fair boy sleeps.
For the sunny hopes sweet spring-time gave
Passed like the sun on the western wave;
No health returned to that gentle boy:
Yet his hands were clasped, and his languid eye
Was in meekness raised to that gracious Power
Who cheered his soul in its parting hour.
Passed like the sun on the western wave;
No health returned to that gentle boy:
Yet his hands were clasped, and his languid eye
Was in meekness raised to that gracious Power
Who cheered his soul in its parting hour.