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 bloom’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 1— 
A tear dropp’d from a mother’s eye 
Into the tomb. 
