The Three Little Graves

I sought at twilight's pensive hourThe path which mourners tread,Where many a marble fane revealsThe City of the Dead;The City of the Dead, where allFrom feverish toil repose,While round their homes the simple flowerIn sweet profusion blows.

And there I mark'd a pleasant spot,Enclosed with tender care,Where, side by side, three infants lay,The only tenants there;Nor weed nor bramble raised its headTo mar the hallow'd scene,And doubtless 'twas a mother's tearThat kept the turf so green.

The eldest was a gentle girl,She sank as rose-buds fall,And then her baby brothers came,They were their parents' all.Their parents' all! Ah! think how deepThe wail of sickness rose,Ere, 'neath these solitary mounds,They found a long repose.

Their cradle-sports beside the hearth,At winter's eve, are o'er,Their tuneful tones, so full of mirth,Delight the ear no more;Yet still their thrilling memory lives,And many a lisping sound,And sweetly broken phrase doth stealThe sorrowing heart around.

Three little graves! Three little graves!Come hither, ye who seeYour blooming babes around you smile,A blissful company,And of those childless mourners thinkWith sympathizing pain,And sooth them with a Saviour's words,"Your dead shall rise again."