THE DYING BOY.

It must be sweet in childhood to give back The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart Hath grown familiar with the paths of sin, And soon to gather 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 accustomed friends, And on this wise bestowed his last request:

'Mother, I'm dying now! There's a deep suffocation on my breast, As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed, And on my brows I feel the cold sweat stand. Say, mother, is this death? 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 knee Shall I kneel down at night and pray, Nor in 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 that great home you spoke of, that blessed land, Where there is one bright summer, always bland, And tortures do not come; From faintness and from pain, From troubles, fears, you say I shall be free— That sickness does not enter there, and we Shall meet again!

'Brother, the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours We've stay'd to watch the coming buds and flowers— Forget it not! Plant there some box or pine, Something that lives in winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory, And call it mine.

'Sister, the 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 course run— And 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 spreads over earth her rosy wings, And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, Lay on his couch asleep. The morning air Came through the open window, freighted with The fragrant odors of the lovely spring. He breathed it not. The laugh of passer-by Jarred like a discord in some mournful note, But worried not his slumber. He was dead!