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 brothers 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. 
I 
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