12 THE DYING BOY. 9. THE DYING BOY. I KNEW a boy whose infant feet had trod And sought his chamber to lie down and die. Mother, I'm dying now There is deep suffocation in my breast, "I feel the cold sweat stand; My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath "Here-lay it on my wrist, And place the other thus beneath my head, "Never beside your knee Shall I kneel down again at night to pray, "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! THE DYING BOY. "Father! I'm going home, To the good home you speak of, that blest land "I must be happy then! From pain and death you say I shall be free, "Brother! the little spot 13 I used to call my garden, where long hours "Plant there some box or pine, "Sister! my young rose tree That all the spring has been my pleasant care, "And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away-my short life done; "Now, mother! sing that tune You sang last night, I'm weary and must sleep! C 14 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. Morning spread over earth her rosy wings, ANON. 10. PATIENCE. PATIENCE! why, 'tis the soul of peace: DECKER. 11. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. MERRY sings the lark as it soareth wide and high, Merry sings the robin on the flowering tree; Merry hums the bee as it flitteth swiftly by, And, O! merry sings the child on its mother's knee. Brightly shine the stars in the blue and moon-lit sky, Bright bloom the flowers o'er the meadow and the lea; Bright the wings glisten of the swallows as they fly, And, O! brightly smiles the child on its mother's knee. But bird and bee have flown, and clouds obscure the sky, The flowers all have faded that were so fair to see; The days grow dark and drear as winter draweth nigh, And our child lies cold and dead on its mother's knee. SHORTER. A VILLAGE TALE. 12. A VILLAGE TALE. THE rooks are cawing in the elms, That sunny morning, mother dear, And April's pleasant leaves have come, Fresh leaves are on the vine-but when The spring is as it used to be, A year-it seems but yesterday, You stood; and she came running back, I hear you sob-your parting kiss- How all comes back-the happy times, Before our father died, When blessed with him, we knew no want, And that worst dread to know, From home, too poor to shelter all, 15 16 A VILLAGE TALE. How often do I blame myself! How wrong. I was to shrink from that From which she did not shrink! I dread to be alone, for then, Her parting face, her waving hand, Slow rolls the waggon down the road, I watch it disappear; Her last "dear sister," faint "good bye," Still lingering in my ear. Oh, mother, had but father lived, It would not have been thus; Or, if God still had taken her, She would have died with us; She would have had kind looks, fond words, Our hands to press her dying hands, To raise her dying head. I'm always thinking, mother, now, Oh how she must have yearned, one face Have longed a moment to have set One look on you and me. |