Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/569

This page has been validated.
The Dying Boy.
551
 "I feel the cold sweat stand;My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breathComes 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 kneeShall 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 landWhere 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 spotI used to call my garden, where long hoursWe'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 beA 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?"
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.