Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM, by EBENEZER ELLIOTT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Before thy leaves thou comest once more,
Last Line: His last and slept.
Alternate Author Name(s): Corn-law Rhymer; Elliot, Ebenezer
Subject(s): Death; Dead, The


BEFORE thy leaves thou comest once more,
White blossom of the sloe!
Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time
Thou comest, pale flower, to me;
For well thou knowest the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lowers
O'er Nature's silent shroud!
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doom'd untimely flowers
In beauty bowed.

Sweet violets, in the budding grove,
Peep where the glad waves run;
The wren below, the thrush above,
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love
Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,
Hears bees chant hymns to God,
The breeze-bow'd palm, moss'd o'er with gold,
Smiles on the well in summer cold,
And daisied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art come,
And flowers in winter blow,
To tell me that the worm makes room
For me, her brother, in the tomb,
And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn
Foretells an eve of tears.
A sunbeam on the sadden'd lawn
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.

Thy leaves will come! but songful spring
Will see no leaf of mine;
Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing,
When my young leaves are withering
Where no suns shine.

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet Sabbath's chime!
But, thine before my time, O death!
I go where no flower blossometh,
Before my time.

Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloom'd; and was I born
To die as soon?

To love my mother and to die --
To perish in my bloom!
Is this my sad brief history? --
A tear dropp'd from a mother's eye
Into the tomb.

He lived and loved -- will sorrow say --
By early sorrow tried;
He smiled, he sigh'd, he past away;
His life was but an April day --
He loved and died!

My mother smiles, then turns away,
But turns away to weep:
They whisper round me -- what they say
I need not hear, for in the clay
I soon must sleep.

Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is
To be both tried and true;
I ever trembled in my bliss;
Now there are farewells in a kiss-
They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue-bells fade,
Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood play'd,
Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,
Beneath their load of roses reel;
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal
No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,
Where late we stood and wept;
For I was stricken when he died --
I felt the arrow as he sigh'd
His last and slept.





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