The Dying Boy
Dublin Core
Title
The Dying Boy
Description
It must be sweet in childhood to give back
The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits.
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 revel in its light, he turned away,
And sought his chamber to lie down and die.
'Twas night; he summoned his accustom'd friends,
And in this wise bestowed his last requests:
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed;
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You will not wait then for my coming feet—
Where it it is one bright summer always, and
That sickness never enters there, and we
We've strayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
A verdant offering in my memory,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
But will you not bestow a single one
Who was it called my name? Nay, do not weep;
And that young sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the opening window, freighted with
The savory labors of the early spring;
He breathed it not. The laugh of passers-by
Jarr'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers. He was dead!
The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits.
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 revel in its light, he turned away,
And sought his chamber to lie down and die.
'Twas night; he summoned his accustom'd friends,
And in this wise bestowed his last requests:
"Mother, I'm dying now!
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 breathComes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother, your hand—
"Here, lay it on my wrist,
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 spoke of—that bless'd landWhere it 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 hoursWe've strayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!
"Plant there some box or pine—
Something that lives in the winter, and will beA verdant offering in 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 to thee;
"And when its roses bloom
I shall be gone away—my short life gone—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!"
And that young sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the opening window, freighted with
The savory labors of the early spring;
He breathed it not. The laugh of passers-by
Jarr'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers. He was dead!
Creator
Unattributed
Source
1:6, p. 4
Date
8.27.1859
Collection
Citation
Unattributed, “The Dying Boy,” Periodical Poets, accessed September 8, 2024, https://periodicalpoets.com/items/show/565.
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