Poems (Rice)/The Dying Boy to his Mother

by Maria Theresa Rice

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.
They'll fan me with their wings of faith—
 With angel care they'll show
The holy paths of peace and truth,
 And teach me how to go.

They say that crystal rivulets
 Shall bathe my brow and feet;
That throngs of seraph ones shall bend
 A trembling child to greet;
That on the borders of those streams
 Rich gems in plenty lie;
That all around a radiance beams,—
 O, for this bliss I sigh.

I see bright birds of rainbow hue,
 Trees with ambrosial fruit;
And I shall join heaven's minstrels, too,
 Yes, I, with song and lute;
Then, mother dearest, smile again,
 Look up and kiss the rod;
I go to rest, all free from pain,
 In Paradise, with God.