This I return to thee, my dearest mother, Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest; And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance Compared with the great debt I owe to thee, Are also thine--would I had more to give! There lie you, side by side. [_He lays a small sum of money with the Bible._ Thou blessed book, Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise Unto salvation, and the holy spring Of all divine philosophy--and thou poor dust, For which the soul of man is often sold; Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won, Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty-- God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee, And may’st thou bless the widow!--lie thou there-- I shall not need you more. I am departing To the fruition of the hope of one, And where the other cannot get admittance! And now a few words will explain the rest:-- [_He writes a few words, which he incloses with them, and making all into a packet, seals them up._ God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds, Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal. [_Shortly after this is done, he becomes suddenly paler--a convulsive spasm passes over him; when he recovers, he slowly rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed._ _Schol._ Almighty God! look down Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him! Give him the victor’s crown, And let not faith be dim! Oh, how unworthy of thy grace, How poor, how needy, stained with sin! How can I enter in Thy kingdom, and behold thy face! Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone Without sustaining knowledge to the grave! For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One, And thou wilt surely save! I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned With never-ending good; For pleasures that were found Like wayside flowers in silent solitude. I bless thee for the love that watched o’er me Through the weak years of infancy, That has been, like thine everlasting truth. The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth. Oh, Thou that didst the mother’s heart bestow Sustain it in its woe, For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness! [_He falls speechless upon the bed. His mother enters hurriedly._ _Mother._ Alas, my son! and am I come too late? Oh, Christ! can he be dead? _Schol._ [_looking up faintly._]. Mother, is’t thou? It is! who summoned thee, dear mother? _Mother._ A little boy, the latest of thy class; He left these walls at sunset, and came back With me e’en now. He told me of thy words, And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand;-- Sorrowing for all; but sorrowing more because Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more!