THE DYING AND THE DEAD.
Come to the bed of death!Draw near—the dying hour has come;The spirit now is going home!Come, see the suff’rer—almost freeFrom life, and life’s last agony—Resign his breath!Beautiful sight—but sad!That cheek, so lately cladIn rosy bloom,Now lays its roses by,Preparing thus to die;For roses must not lieIn the dark tomb!It is a child who dies—His lovely deep blue eyesAre fixed in death;Why should the sweet boy die?Why should such beauty lieThe sod beneath?’Tis ever, ever thus!The loveliest blossoms we can find,With numerous tender cords we bind,And fasten firmly to the heart;But Death comes in to playhispart,And cuts the fibres loose!Pale as a tenant of the tomb,Who comes into that dying room,Supported by his friend?Why steals a tear down every face?Why do all move to give him place?Why springs the mother to his side?Why seeks she thus her grief to hide,As o’er him she doth bend?It is the father, come to lieBeside his boy—and see him die,Ere his own life has fled;’Tis a sad sight to see—That mournful tragedy—That dying bed!There sits the mother—pale with woe;There lies the father—faint and low;There gasps the dying boy;And friendly strangers, gather’d there,Breathe out the sigh, and drop the tear;Mournful employ!There too, unseen, is ONE,God’s well beloved Son,Waiting, when all is o’er,In every heart to pourThe oil of joy!A kind physician standeth near,And looks of grief his features wear;He hears the mother say—“O, Doctor! must my darling die?Though fixed and glazed his lovely eye,Is there no hope that he may stillRevive, and live to bless thy skill?”O, God! he answers—“Nay”—And slowly turns away his head,And wipes the tear that moment shed,And leaves the room with silent tread,For hope’s last glimm’ring ray has fled!“My husband! something must be done—Resign not hope till life is gone—”So plead the mother—but he tookHer hand, and gave her one sad look—He knew that all was o’er;And as he feels the boy’s faint pulse,Cold shudderings his frame convulse;But silently for strength he prays,And gently to the mother says,“He’ll breathe but few times more.”O! what a bursting tide of grief,Has given that mother’s heart relief!—She’s calmer now;And while her boy lies motionless,She looks to Heaven—then stoops to kissHis pale—pale brow!There was a warm, unwavering friend,Had watch’d beside him to the end,—His faithful dog;He was a well tried friend and true,And Charley loved him fondly too;Whene’er a list of friends was made,His much loved dog would surely headThe catalogue.And tears of sympathyGush’d forth from many an eye,By strangers shed—The boy was well beloved,Where’er his footsteps roved,And none were seen unmovedAround that bed.But suddenlyThe sick man rises—takes his boyWith all the strength he can employ,And lays him on his own fond breast,That dear, that well known place of rest,There, there to die!Now fainter, fainter grows his breath—Chill’d by the icy touch of Death,His little heart grows cold;O, hear the mother’s parting word—“Farewell—receive his spirit, Lord!”And see! O, see! she stoops to sipThe last cold dew from that pale lip—Behold—behold!Upon his father’s noble breast,The gentle boy has sunk to rest—Th’ immortal spirit fled!And ’tis a mournful sight and rare,To see them lie together there—The dying and the dead!
Come to the bed of death!Draw near—the dying hour has come;The spirit now is going home!Come, see the suff’rer—almost freeFrom life, and life’s last agony—Resign his breath!Beautiful sight—but sad!That cheek, so lately cladIn rosy bloom,Now lays its roses by,Preparing thus to die;For roses must not lieIn the dark tomb!It is a child who dies—His lovely deep blue eyesAre fixed in death;Why should the sweet boy die?Why should such beauty lieThe sod beneath?’Tis ever, ever thus!The loveliest blossoms we can find,With numerous tender cords we bind,And fasten firmly to the heart;But Death comes in to playhispart,And cuts the fibres loose!Pale as a tenant of the tomb,Who comes into that dying room,Supported by his friend?Why steals a tear down every face?Why do all move to give him place?Why springs the mother to his side?Why seeks she thus her grief to hide,As o’er him she doth bend?It is the father, come to lieBeside his boy—and see him die,Ere his own life has fled;’Tis a sad sight to see—That mournful tragedy—That dying bed!There sits the mother—pale with woe;There lies the father—faint and low;There gasps the dying boy;And friendly strangers, gather’d there,Breathe out the sigh, and drop the tear;Mournful employ!There too, unseen, is ONE,God’s well beloved Son,Waiting, when all is o’er,In every heart to pourThe oil of joy!A kind physician standeth near,And looks of grief his features wear;He hears the mother say—“O, Doctor! must my darling die?Though fixed and glazed his lovely eye,Is there no hope that he may stillRevive, and live to bless thy skill?”O, God! he answers—“Nay”—And slowly turns away his head,And wipes the tear that moment shed,And leaves the room with silent tread,For hope’s last glimm’ring ray has fled!“My husband! something must be done—Resign not hope till life is gone—”So plead the mother—but he tookHer hand, and gave her one sad look—He knew that all was o’er;And as he feels the boy’s faint pulse,Cold shudderings his frame convulse;But silently for strength he prays,And gently to the mother says,“He’ll breathe but few times more.”O! what a bursting tide of grief,Has given that mother’s heart relief!—She’s calmer now;And while her boy lies motionless,She looks to Heaven—then stoops to kissHis pale—pale brow!There was a warm, unwavering friend,Had watch’d beside him to the end,—His faithful dog;He was a well tried friend and true,And Charley loved him fondly too;Whene’er a list of friends was made,His much loved dog would surely headThe catalogue.And tears of sympathyGush’d forth from many an eye,By strangers shed—The boy was well beloved,Where’er his footsteps roved,And none were seen unmovedAround that bed.But suddenlyThe sick man rises—takes his boyWith all the strength he can employ,And lays him on his own fond breast,That dear, that well known place of rest,There, there to die!Now fainter, fainter grows his breath—Chill’d by the icy touch of Death,His little heart grows cold;O, hear the mother’s parting word—“Farewell—receive his spirit, Lord!”And see! O, see! she stoops to sipThe last cold dew from that pale lip—Behold—behold!Upon his father’s noble breast,The gentle boy has sunk to rest—Th’ immortal spirit fled!And ’tis a mournful sight and rare,To see them lie together there—The dying and the dead!
Come to the bed of death!Draw near—the dying hour has come;The spirit now is going home!Come, see the suff’rer—almost freeFrom life, and life’s last agony—Resign his breath!
Come to the bed of death!
Draw near—the dying hour has come;
The spirit now is going home!
Come, see the suff’rer—almost free
From life, and life’s last agony—
Resign his breath!
Beautiful sight—but sad!That cheek, so lately cladIn rosy bloom,Now lays its roses by,Preparing thus to die;For roses must not lieIn the dark tomb!
Beautiful sight—but sad!
That cheek, so lately clad
In rosy bloom,
Now lays its roses by,
Preparing thus to die;
For roses must not lie
In the dark tomb!
It is a child who dies—His lovely deep blue eyesAre fixed in death;Why should the sweet boy die?Why should such beauty lieThe sod beneath?
It is a child who dies—
His lovely deep blue eyes
Are fixed in death;
Why should the sweet boy die?
Why should such beauty lie
The sod beneath?
’Tis ever, ever thus!The loveliest blossoms we can find,With numerous tender cords we bind,And fasten firmly to the heart;But Death comes in to playhispart,And cuts the fibres loose!
’Tis ever, ever thus!
The loveliest blossoms we can find,
With numerous tender cords we bind,
And fasten firmly to the heart;
But Death comes in to playhispart,
And cuts the fibres loose!
Pale as a tenant of the tomb,Who comes into that dying room,Supported by his friend?Why steals a tear down every face?Why do all move to give him place?Why springs the mother to his side?Why seeks she thus her grief to hide,As o’er him she doth bend?
Pale as a tenant of the tomb,
Who comes into that dying room,
Supported by his friend?
Why steals a tear down every face?
Why do all move to give him place?
Why springs the mother to his side?
Why seeks she thus her grief to hide,
As o’er him she doth bend?
It is the father, come to lieBeside his boy—and see him die,Ere his own life has fled;’Tis a sad sight to see—That mournful tragedy—That dying bed!There sits the mother—pale with woe;There lies the father—faint and low;There gasps the dying boy;And friendly strangers, gather’d there,Breathe out the sigh, and drop the tear;Mournful employ!There too, unseen, is ONE,God’s well beloved Son,Waiting, when all is o’er,In every heart to pourThe oil of joy!
It is the father, come to lie
Beside his boy—and see him die,
Ere his own life has fled;
’Tis a sad sight to see—
That mournful tragedy—
That dying bed!
There sits the mother—pale with woe;
There lies the father—faint and low;
There gasps the dying boy;
And friendly strangers, gather’d there,
Breathe out the sigh, and drop the tear;
Mournful employ!
There too, unseen, is ONE,
God’s well beloved Son,
Waiting, when all is o’er,
In every heart to pour
The oil of joy!
A kind physician standeth near,And looks of grief his features wear;He hears the mother say—“O, Doctor! must my darling die?Though fixed and glazed his lovely eye,Is there no hope that he may stillRevive, and live to bless thy skill?”O, God! he answers—“Nay”—And slowly turns away his head,And wipes the tear that moment shed,And leaves the room with silent tread,For hope’s last glimm’ring ray has fled!
A kind physician standeth near,
And looks of grief his features wear;
He hears the mother say—
“O, Doctor! must my darling die?
Though fixed and glazed his lovely eye,
Is there no hope that he may still
Revive, and live to bless thy skill?”
O, God! he answers—“Nay”—
And slowly turns away his head,
And wipes the tear that moment shed,
And leaves the room with silent tread,
For hope’s last glimm’ring ray has fled!
“My husband! something must be done—Resign not hope till life is gone—”So plead the mother—but he tookHer hand, and gave her one sad look—He knew that all was o’er;And as he feels the boy’s faint pulse,Cold shudderings his frame convulse;But silently for strength he prays,And gently to the mother says,“He’ll breathe but few times more.”
“My husband! something must be done—
Resign not hope till life is gone—”
So plead the mother—but he took
Her hand, and gave her one sad look—
He knew that all was o’er;
And as he feels the boy’s faint pulse,
Cold shudderings his frame convulse;
But silently for strength he prays,
And gently to the mother says,
“He’ll breathe but few times more.”
O! what a bursting tide of grief,Has given that mother’s heart relief!—She’s calmer now;And while her boy lies motionless,She looks to Heaven—then stoops to kissHis pale—pale brow!
O! what a bursting tide of grief,
Has given that mother’s heart relief!—
She’s calmer now;
And while her boy lies motionless,
She looks to Heaven—then stoops to kiss
His pale—pale brow!
There was a warm, unwavering friend,Had watch’d beside him to the end,—His faithful dog;He was a well tried friend and true,And Charley loved him fondly too;Whene’er a list of friends was made,His much loved dog would surely headThe catalogue.And tears of sympathyGush’d forth from many an eye,By strangers shed—The boy was well beloved,Where’er his footsteps roved,And none were seen unmovedAround that bed.
There was a warm, unwavering friend,
Had watch’d beside him to the end,—
His faithful dog;
He was a well tried friend and true,
And Charley loved him fondly too;
Whene’er a list of friends was made,
His much loved dog would surely head
The catalogue.
And tears of sympathy
Gush’d forth from many an eye,
By strangers shed—
The boy was well beloved,
Where’er his footsteps roved,
And none were seen unmoved
Around that bed.
But suddenlyThe sick man rises—takes his boyWith all the strength he can employ,And lays him on his own fond breast,That dear, that well known place of rest,There, there to die!
But suddenly
The sick man rises—takes his boy
With all the strength he can employ,
And lays him on his own fond breast,
That dear, that well known place of rest,
There, there to die!
Now fainter, fainter grows his breath—Chill’d by the icy touch of Death,His little heart grows cold;O, hear the mother’s parting word—“Farewell—receive his spirit, Lord!”And see! O, see! she stoops to sipThe last cold dew from that pale lip—Behold—behold!
Now fainter, fainter grows his breath—
Chill’d by the icy touch of Death,
His little heart grows cold;
O, hear the mother’s parting word—
“Farewell—receive his spirit, Lord!”
And see! O, see! she stoops to sip
The last cold dew from that pale lip—
Behold—behold!
Upon his father’s noble breast,The gentle boy has sunk to rest—Th’ immortal spirit fled!And ’tis a mournful sight and rare,To see them lie together there—The dying and the dead!
Upon his father’s noble breast,
The gentle boy has sunk to rest—
Th’ immortal spirit fled!
And ’tis a mournful sight and rare,
To see them lie together there—
The dying and the dead!
May27th, 1841.