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 si pil’d. 
His lasc,, and slept. 
