166 _ THE DYING BOY. 



Thy leaves will come ! but songful spring 



Will see no leaf of mine : 

 Her bells will ring, her bridemaids sing, 

 When my young leaves are withering 

 Where no suns shine. 



Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath 

 When June's sweet Sabbaths chime ! 

 But, thine before my time, oh, death ! 

 I go where no flow'r blossometh, 

 Before my time. 



Even as the blushes of the morn 



Vanish, and long ere noon 

 The dew-drop dieth on the thorn, 

 So fair I bloorn'd ; and was I born 

 To die as soon ? 



To love my mother, and to die . 



To perish in my bloom ! 

 Is this my sad, brief history ! 

 A tear dropp'd from a mother's eye 

 Into the tomb. 



