170 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 



" Away away my bosom glows, 



I'll make a hero of my son ; 

 He'll lead his countrymen from snows, 



To death or victory on on ! " 

 With this she raised him, and embraced 



The young and yet unconscious child : 

 He oped his lovely eyes, and gazed 



Upon her face and smiled. 



THE DYING BOY. 



It must be sweet, in childhood to give back 



The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart 



Has grown familiar with the paths of sin, 



And sown to garner 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 gambol in the sun, he turn'd away, 



And sought his chamber, to lie down and die ! 



Twas night he summon' d his accustom' d friends, 



And in 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 press' d, 



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 soft beneath my head, 

 And say, sweet mother '.say, when I am dead, 



Shall I be miss'd ? 

 Never beside your knee 

 Shall I kneel down at night to pray, 

 Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay 

 You taught to me ! 



