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Lost.
My sad tears flow, and weep lost worth,
My grief-filled bosom heaves with pain,
To think, ah, bitter thought,—on earth
I ne'er shall see his face again.
Ah, never more his manly voice
Will mingle with the children's glee,
Nor e'er again may I rejoice
At thought of him come back from sea.
For in the cold dark deep he lies,
Who was so gentle, free, and brave,
O'er his lone grave the sad wind sighs
Where rolls the wild Atlantic wave.
Yet sweet consoling thought, that He
Who "takes but what He gave away"
Has vowed by His sure word to be
The widow's help, the orphan's stay.
Still tears will come when memories sweet
Recur of him I mourn in vain,
But, ah, the happy hope to meet—
To meet—ne'er more to part again!
The Dying Boy.
I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To gambol in the sun, he turned away,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die!
'Twas night—he summoned his accustomed friends,
And on this wise bestowed his last bequest:—
"Mother! I'm dying now;—
There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed;
And on my brow
