Page:Poems Rice.djvu/96

THE DYING BOY TO HIS MOTHER.

MOTHER, it is not hard to die,
 Weep not around my bed,
For angel bands are hovering nigh,
 To bless you when I'm dead;
Can you not see those snowy hands
 Outstretched to bear me home?
Can you not see those flowery lands,
 Where I in joy shall roam?

There are bright temples lined with gold,
 Pillars and domes empearled,
Where infant spirits ope the gates—
 Types of that glorious world;
Within its violet-tinted halls
 Are steps with diamonds laid;
And Hope's fair mantle softly falls
 Round each believing head.

They tell me that immortal wreaths
 Shall rest upon my brow;
Mother, I see their angel forms,
 And hear their voices now.