THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES.
I sought at twilight's pensive hour
The path which mourners tread,
Where many a marble fane reveals
The City of the Dead;
The City of the Dead, where all
From feverish toil repose,
While round their homes the simple flower
In 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 head
To mar the hallow'd scene,
And doubtless 'twas a mother's tear
That 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 deep
The wail of sickness rose,
Ere, 'neath these solitary mounds,
They found a long repose.
