Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang--
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery:
Up! mother, up! look on my face,
I only wait for thy embrace.
One last, last word--a blessing, one,
To prove thou knowest what I have done,
No look! No word! Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak--lift up thy head.
What, silent still? Then thou art dead!
Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
Rejoice with thee, and thus to die."
Slowly he falls. The clustering hair
Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare.
One long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom, dead.
_Mrs. Ann S. Stephens._
* * * * *
THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR.
Sweetheart, good-bye! the flutt'ring sail
Is spread to waft me far from thee,
And soon before the favouring gale
My ship shall bound upon the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
But unforgotten every charm--
Though lost to sight, to memory dear.
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