I am dying—I am dying—
With youth's bloom upon my cheek.
And my spirit is departing.
Its unknown home to seek.
The summer's early blossoms,
Are scarcely yet in bloom ;
They are hudclmg as I perish,
They will blossom on my tomb.
And the spring-breeze sighing softly
O'er the scarcely ruffled sea,
Breathes a note of solemn sadness—
'Tis a requiem sweet for me.
And see ! a ruddy sun-ray
From the west now takes its flight-
Era 'tis melted into darkness
My eyes will close in night.

I am dying—I am dying—
For there rushes on my brain
A vision of the viewless,
Which the flesh cannot sustain.
My dust the earth is claiming,
Th'unearthlv cannot die,
But searching for the yet unknown,
To other worlds 'twill fly,
Into the flood of Being,
Which was—is—and will be,
'Twill pass as does the dew-drop
Into the mighty sea.
That dew-drop was a vagrant
O'er sea, and hill, and plain,
Long wandering on the zephyr's wing-
But found its home again.

I am dying—I am dying—
Though my heart's first love is young,
And still its thrilling sweetness
In my soul is fresh and strong.
Let all our friendly neighbours
Stand hy and breathe a prayer,
When my dust to dust is given—
But, let no one shed a tear.
Yet when there comes a maiden
Across the sunny wave.
With sadness in her sweet blue eye,
To weep beside my grave—
gather kindly round her,
For her let tears be shed—
And soothe the troubled spirit
'I'hat is mourning for the dead.

I am dying—I am dying—
For the peace of death is shed
O'er my trembling anxious being,
And my earthly cares are fled ;
But if one lonely fondness,
Though 'twas an earth-born joy.
Should linger in the bosom
Of a dying minstrel boy—
O frown not sadly on it—
O blame not earth-born love,
For Angel harps are tuning,
To welcome it above.
Farewell ye friendly strangers—
Farewell to her most dear,
For the dust has ceas'd to suffer-
Farewell to earth and care.