There, there to die!
Now fainter, fainter grows his breath—
Chill’d by the icy touch of Death,
His little heart grows cold;
O, hear the mother’s parting word—
“Farewell—receive his spirit, Lord!”
And see! O, see! she stoops to sip
The last cold dew from that pale lip—
Behold—behold!
Upon his father’s noble breast,