168 THE DYING BOY. 



Then panting woods the breeze will feel 



And bowers, as heretofore, 

 Beneath their load of roses reel ; 

 But I through woodbine lanes shall steal 

 No more, no more. 



Well, lay me by my brother's side, 

 Where late we stood and wept \ 

 For I was stricken when he died, 

 I felt the arrow as he sigh'd 

 His last, and slept. 



