Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Dying Boy

For works with similar titles, see The Dying Boy.

The Dying Boy.

I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To gambol in the sun, he turned away,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die!

'Twas night—he summoned his accustomed friends,
And on this wise bestowed his last bequest:—

 "Mother! I'm dying now;—
There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed;
 And on my brow

 "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—

 "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?

 "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!

 "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!"—

 "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.

 "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!"—

 "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!

 "Plant there some box or pine—
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.

 "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?"

"Now, mother, sing the tune
 You sang last night—I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it called my name?—Nay, do not weep,
 You'll all come soon!"

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings—
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring—
He breathed it not! The laugh of passers-by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers—He was dead!