Classic Poem

Oh , Mother! I am dying,
But ere these life-strings break,
I fain would look a last adieu
On yonder glassy lake
Upon whose banks I've sported,
When my heart was light and free,
And where my young companions
Have twined their wreaths for me.

The golden sun is sinking
Beneath the crimson west,
The birds have sung their evening song,
And lulled their young to rest.
Then bear me to the window,
In health my favorite place —
For I would gaze ere life depart
On Nature's lovely face.

The Ivy and the Woodbine
Cling round the leafy bower;
Where by the gushing fountain's side
I've planted many a flower; —
Clad in their vernal beauty
From Winter's night they wake,
But I must leave them all, mother, —
Oh! keep them for my sake.

The lute you love so dearly,
Now, gentle mother, bring;
And the little song you taught me,
I'll try once more to sing.
Too many thoughts of other days
Oppress me while I play,
Forgive these flowing tears, mother,
And take the lute away.

I know that I am dying —
The cold damp's on my brow,
And sister spirits call me
To their blissful mansions now.
They're waiting to conduct me
To their bright, happy bowers;
But I'll not forget thee , mother,
In that starry home of ours.

And when you've gently laid me
In the silent grave to sleep,

I'll on the zephyr's wing return,
And tell thee not to weep.
A mist is gathering o'er me,
Oh! mother, fare thee well!
I come, I come, ye Seraph band!
My voice with yours to swell.