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THE DYING BOY.

9. THE DYING BOY.

I KNEW a boy whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and call'd him out
To gambol in the sun, he turn'd away,

And sought his chamber to lie down and die.
'Twas night-he summoned his accustom'd friends,
And on this wise bestow'd his last bequest :-

Mother, I'm dying now

There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;
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 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 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!

THE DYING BOY.

"Father! I'm going home,

To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where 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

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I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stay'd to watch the budding things 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! 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 done;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?

"Now, mother! sing that tune

You sang last night, I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it call'd my name? Nay, do not weep;
You'll all come soon!"

C

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SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the open windows freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring.
He breathed it not !-The laugh of passers by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers-he was dead!

ANON.

10. PATIENCE.

PATIENCE! why, 'tis the soul of peace:
Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heav'n;
It makes men look like Gods. The best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit:
The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.

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,
As on the very day-

That sunny morning, mother dear,
When Lucy went away;

And April's pleasant leaves have come,
And April's gentle rain-

Fresh leaves are on the vine-but when
Will Lucy come again?

The spring is as it used to be,
And all must be the same;
And yet I miss the feeling now,
That always with it came;
It seems to me as if she made
The sweetness of the year-
As if I could be glad no more,
Now Lucy is not here.

A year-it seems but yesterday,
When in this very door

You stood; and she came running back,
To say good-bye once more.

I hear you sob-your parting kiss-
The last fond words you said-
Ah! little did we think- -one year
And Lucy would be dead.

How all comes back-the happy times,

Before our father died,

When blessed with him, we knew no want,
Scarce knew a wish denied;
His loss, and all our struggles on,

And that worst dread to know,

From home, too poor to shelter all,
That one at last must go.

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A VILLAGE TALE.

How often do I blame myself!
How often do I think,

How wrong. I was to shrink from that

From which she did not shrink!
And when I wish that I had gone,
And know the wish is vain,
And say, she might have lived, I think,
How can I smile again?

I dread to be alone, for then,
Before my swimming eyes,

Her parting face, her waving hand,
Distinct before me rise;

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,
Around her dying bed,

Our hands to press her dying hands,

To raise her dying head.

I'm always thinking, mother, now,
Of what she must have thought,
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
And neither of us brought;

Oh how she must have yearned, one face
That was not strange, to see;

Have longed a moment to have set

One look on you and me.

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