May 25, 1857
'T was the holy hour of twilight;
With hushed hearts they stood around his couch,
And looked upon the dying youth.
It was not a group of kindred dear
That gathered there, to watch o'er him
As life's faint, fitful light was waning.
No mother's hand
In that lone hour smoothed back the curls
From the damp forehead, on which death's seal
Was all too plainly set. No father's form
Bent in still agony o'er his son,
Forcing each sigh and tear-drop back,
Lest at his grief the dying one be sad.
No sister there clasped his could hand
In speechless sorrow; no brother knelt
In mighty grief too deep for tears.
Far, far from home,
Away from kindred and the love
That all untiring, watched his childhood;
Amid strange faces and strange forms,
He lay. Anon his mournful eye
would sadly wander o'er the group
That stood around him; then his gaze
Would rest upon the calm, blue sky,
Where the stars, those holy sentinels,
Watched o'er him as he passed away.
At last his eye,
Dimmed by the gathering shade of death,
Brightened with heaven-born luster;
His pale lips parted, and he spoke:
"I'm dying now, soon the scene will end,
And I be numbered with the throng
That once have lived. Life's long, troubled dream
Is over, and I go; but ere
Unbroken silence stills my voice
I crave a boon, deny me not."
"When I am dead,
Cut ye from off my brow a curl
And send it to my mother. Tell her
That it was taken from a forehead
Cold and pale; tell her with my last tones
I blessed her; and my last prayer
Was for the loved in my far-off home.
Tell ye my kindred how I longed
To die with them around me. But ah!
It could not be. Send ye to them
My long and last farewell, burdened
With deep, thrilling tenderness.
And now to all, farewell." His voice
Died away in plaintive whisperings,
Low they bent, that they might catch the last
Fond word he breathed. But to their ears
Came but the words--"Mother, Home, and Heaven."
He spoke no more.
They held their breath as flickeringly
The lamp of life went out. So soft and still
The silver cord was broken, that
Long they gazed upon his marble face
Ere they were 'ware that he was gone,
And that they stood around the dead.
Now, far away
Toward the setting sun he sleeps.
They laid him where the grand old woods
Cast their long shadows, where the song
Of forest birds makes thrilling music.
And oft the stranger pauses while
Passing by the spot; stops long to gaze
Upon the lonely mound, and asks
Who the sleeper is, and listens
With mournful brow to the sad story
Of the stranger youth, and tears fall
Often from the traveler's eye
Upon the "wanderer's grave."
