A Hymn of Empire and Other Poems

by Frederick George Scott

 

HIS PARTING

 
THEY bore the little dying boy
    Through his beloved wood,
The sweet song-sparrows hushed their joy,
    The pine trees silent stood.

The tiny ripples from the lake
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    Crept noiseless down the shore,
And even the brook seemed for his sake
    Less boisterous than before.

The sunbeams never blinked their eyes,
    Quite still were light and shade,
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While here and there the droning flies
    A solemn music made.

’Twas plain his woodland friends had heard,
    And nature all around
Mourned, as when some sweet singing bird
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    Has fallen to the ground.

But he, our little dying boy,
    Forgetting all his pain,
Passed prattling by in childish joy
    And never came again.
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