The Dying Boy

The Dying Boy

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:

"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?

Mother, your hand—

"Here, lay it on my wrist,

And place the other now 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 spoke of—that bless'd land
Where 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 hours
We'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 be
A 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!"

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
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!

Unattributed

1:6, p. 4

8.27.1859