Death of the Young

The Boston Cultivator

Boston, Massachusetts

July 1, 1854

The flowerlets of Summer were blooming,
The pine groves were thrilling with song,
And gay birds on golden wings mounting,
Like sunbeams were flitting along,
While clouds o'er the blue azure sailing,
Like spirits of beauty and move,
And seemed, on the rapt vision beaming
Let down from the region of love!

A child in the meadows was straying,
With locks of a wavy play,
Where the light and the shadow were playing,
Alternate the live long day,
His sweet gushing laughter out-ringing,
As free as the fountain's flow,
Told that pleasure his young heart was thrilling,
As pure as the untrodden snow!

Like a dream to the innocent dreamer,
Was the face of the innocent scene,
And the voice of the streamlet's low murmur,
Was the melody heard in that dream,
As it sparkled along the green meadows,
And sung through the golden hours,
Where he played, until fell the eve-shadows,
And wreathed into garlands the flowers.

The morrow arose with its brightness,
Of sunshine and song, birds and flowers,
But gone was its young spirit's brightness,
And heavily pass'd the sad hours!
Death's angel was hovering near him,
With the gloom of his shadowy wing,
Awaiting the mandate to bear him
To that reign everlasting of spring!

He lingered not long on this earth-land,
His spirit soon took his far flight,
To join in a song in that bright land,
That inhabits the realms of delight.
Thus the young and the joyous are passing
Away from terrestrial scenes,
But grieve not their souls are rejoicing,
And chanting celestial strains!

Harrison B. WARDWELL

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