THE DYING GIRL
Far away, he thinks me blooming
Into beauty proud and dear,
While before my orbs are looming
Visions of the shroud and bier.
Take these withered lilies to him—
Whence this tremor, whence this gloom?
Show the buds, all drooping, show him—
Let him strew them o’er my tomb.
Icy drops upon me gleaming—
Slower, slower pants my breath;
Tell me, mother, am I dreaming—
Tell me, am I tasting death?
I am going! I am going!
Far from Harry—far from home,
Where eternal truth is glowing—
Where the meteor angels roam.
The spoiler comes, on flashing pinions,
Thirsting is his eager dart;
Now he beckons to his minions—
Now his keen lance drinks my heart!
Farewell, father! farewell, mother!
Catch my latest look and sigh;
Farewell, Harry—more than brother—
God of life! I die—I die!
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