THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES.
193
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 steal
The sorrowing heart around.
Three little graves! Three little graves!
Come hither, ye who see
Your blooming babes around you smile,
A blissful company,
And of those childless mourners think
With sympathizing pain,
And sooth them with a Saviour's words,
"Your dead shall rise again."
