Page 392
    THE
  
  
    DYING
  
  
    BOY.
  
  
    Concluded.
  
    Kiss
  
  
    my
  
  
    fe
  
  
    -
  
  
    vered
  
  
    cheek,
  
  
    I'll
  
  
    soon
  
  
    be
  
  
    free'd
  
  
    from
  
  
    all
  
  
    the
  
  
    pain,
  
  
    For
  
  
    now
  
  
    I
  
  
    am
  
  
    so
  
  
    weak.
  
    Kiss
  
  
    my
  
  
    fe
  
  
    -
  
  
    vered
  
  
    cheek,
  
  
    I'll
  
  
    soon
  
  
    be
  
  
    free'd
  
  
    from
  
  
    all
  
  
    the
  
  
    pain.
  
  
    For
  
  
    now
  
  
    I
  
  
    am
  
  
    so
  
  
    weak.
  
    2. Now
  
  
    light
  
  
    the
  
  
    lamps,
  
  
    my
  
  
    mother
  
  
    dear,
  
    The
  
  
    sun
  
  
    has
  
  
    passed
  
  
    away:
  
    I
  
  
    soon
  
  
    must
  
  
    go,
  
  
    but
  
  
    do
  
  
    not
  
  
    fear,
  
    I'll
  
  
    live
  
  
    in
  
  
    endless
  
  
    day.
  
    3 I'm
  
  
    sinking
  
  
    fast,
  
  
    my
  
  
    mother
  
  
    dear,
  
    I
  
  
    can
  
  
    no
  
  
    longer
  
  
    dwell;
  
    Yet
  
  
    I'll
  
  
    be
  
  
    with
  
  
    you,
  
  
    do
  
  
    not
  
  
    fear,
  
    But
  
  
    now,
  
  
    oh
  
  
    now,
  
  
    farewell
  
  
    !
  
    4
  
  
    A
  
  
    band
  
  
    of
  
  
    angels
  
  
    beckon
  
  
    me,
  
    I
  
  
    can
  
  
    no
  
  
    longer
  
  
    stay;
  
    Hark!
  
  
    how
  
  
    they
  
  
    sing:
  
  
    "We
  
  
    welcome
  
  
    thee:
  
    Dear
  
  
    brother,
  
  
    haste
  
  
    away."
  
    5
  
  
    The
  
  
    hour
  
  
    has
  
  
    come,
  
  
    my
  
  
    end
  
  
    is
  
  
    near,
  
    My
  
  
    soul
  
  
    is
  
  
    mounting
  
  
    higher;
  
    What
  
  
    glorious
  
  
    strains
  
  
    salute
  
  
    my
  
  
    ear,
  
    From
  
  
    heaven's
  
  
    angelic
  
  
    choir.
  
    6
  
  
    Their
  
  
    flowing
  
  
    robes
  
  
    in
  
  
    brightness
  
  
    shine.
  
    A
  
  
    crown
  
  
    is
  
  
    on
  
  
    each
  
  
    hand;
  
    Say,
  
  
    mother,
  
  
    will
  
  
    not
  
  
    such
  
  
    be
  
  
    mine
  
    When
  
  
    I
  
  
    am
  
  
    with
  
  
    the
  
  
    dead?
  
    7
  
  
    Then
  
  
    do
  
  
    not
  
  
    weep,
  
  
    sweet
  
  
    mother,
  
  
    now,
  
    'Twill
  
  
    break
  
  
    this
  
  
    body
  
  
    frail;
  
    Those
  
  
    burning
  
  
    tears
  
  
    fall
  
  
    o'er
  
  
    my
  
  
    brow,
  
    Farewell,
  
  
    oh
  
  
    I
  
  
    fare
  
  
    thee
  
  
    well.