University of Virginia Library

THE DYING BOY.

His pure cheek pressed the pillow, and its hue
So late like the fresh rose's heart, was pale,
While 'mid the clustering curls, those chill dews hung
Which fall but once.
Still o'er that beauteous brow
Where fatal languor settled, flashed the light
Of intellect, as a faint cry burst forth,
“Oh! mother!—mother!”
Then there was a pair
A pang too deep for words.
“Your mother sleeps
In her cold grave, my son. You stood with me
Beside its brink. Your little hand clasped mine
Convulsively, at those sad, solemn words,
Ashes to ashes!—when the clods fell down
Upon the coffin lid. Two months have past,
And every night your cheek was wet with tears,
For that dear mother. Say, have you forgot?
Or roves your mind in dreams? Speak, dearest one.”
—And then the father rais'd that drooping head,
And laid it on his bosom, and bow'd down
A listening ear close to those murmuring lips:
But till their last faint whisper died away,
There was no sound of answer to his voice,
Save “mother! mother!”
Deem ye not he err'd!
For she who at his cradle caught the flame
Of that deep love, which time may never quench,
Perchance, was nearer to her son, than you
Who smooth'd the pillow for his fever'd head,
Calling yourselves the living, tho' ye dwell
In death's own realm, beneath his lifted dart.
Ye gave his mother to the earth-worm's bed,
But can ye say that her seraphic smile
Beam'd not upon him, as he struggling lay
In the last mortal agony?
Her lip
Hail'd her frail first-born to this world of tears
With rapture's speechless kiss. Know ye, how warm,
How eloquent its welcome to that clime
Which hath no death-pang?
If celestial bands
Feel for the unknown habitants of clay,
A hallowed train of guardian sympathies,
And fold their wings around them as they run
Time's slippery course, with what a flood of joy,
With what refin'd, exulting intercourse,
At Heaven's bright threshold, when all ills are past,
A mother greets her child!
'Tis o'er! 'Tis o'er!
All earthly strife in that soft sigh doth end.
Wrap the white grave-robe o'er that stainless form,
And lay it by her side, whose breast so long
Was the fond pillow for his golden hair.
Write o'er his narrow tomb, “'tis well! 'tis well!”
Then turn away and weep:—for weep we must,
When our most beautiful and treasur'd things
Fleet from this shaded earth.
How can we see
Our rifled bowers of rest in ruin laid
Without a tear? Yet He, who wills the wound,
Can shed such balm-drops o'er the riven heart,
That its most poignant and deep-rooted grief
Shall bear blest fruit in Heaven.