THE LITTLE BOY

THAT DIED.

AM all alone in my chamber now,

And the midnight hour is near,

And the faggot's crack, and the clock's dull tick,
Are all the sounds I hear;

And over my soul in its solitude

Sweet feelings of sadness glide;

And my heart and my eyes are full when I think
Of the little boy that died.

I went home one night to my father's house-
Went home to the dear ones all,
And softly I opened the garden gate,
And softly the door of the hall;
My mother came out to meet her son,

She kissed me, and then she sighed,

And her head fell on my neck, and she wept
For the little boy that died.

And when I gazed on his innocent face,
As still and cold he lay,

And thought what a lovely child he had been,
And how soon he must decay;

"O Death, thou lovest the beautiful!"
In the woe of my spirit I cried,

For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, Of the little boy that died.

Again I will go to my father's house

Go home to the dear ones all,

And sadly I'll open the garden gate,

And sadly the door of the hall;

I shall meet my mother, but, nevermore,

With her darling by her side;

And she'll kiss me and sigh, and weep again

For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him, when the flowers come,
In the garden where he played;

I shall miss him more by the fireside,
When the flowers have all decayed;

I shall see his toys and his empty chair,
And the horse he used to ride;

And they will speak, with silent speech, Of the little boy that died.

I shall see his little sister again,

With her playmates about the door,

And I'll watch the children at their sports,

As I never did before;

And if, in the group, I see a child

That's dimpled and laughing-eyed,
I'll look to see if it may not be
The little boy that died.

We shall go home to our Father's house-
To our Father's house in the skies,
Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight,
And our love no broken ties;

We shall roam on the banks of the River of Peace,
And bathe in its blissful tide;

And one of the joys of our Heaven will be

The little boy that died.

And therefore, when I'm sitting alone,

And the midnight hour is near,

And the faggot's crack and the clock's dull tick

Are the only sounds I hear,

O! sweet o'er my soul in its solitude

Are the feelings of sadness that glide,

Though my heart and my eyes are full when I think

Of the little boy that died.

H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose check, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been:
We see the same sights our fathers have seen,-
We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think,
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold:
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath;
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?