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Her brow of dimpled beauty, why
So like the marble white?"
My little ones, ye need no more
To hush the sportive tread,
Or whispering, pass the muffled door,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
In vain you'll seek her joyous tone
Of tuneful mirth to hear,
Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan
Again distress your ear.
Lost to a mother's pillowing breast,
The snow-wreath marks her bed,
Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest,—
Your sweetest one is dead.
Returning spring, the birds will call
Their happy task to take;
Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all
From winter's sleep shall wake,
Again your cherished flowers shall bloom
Anew their fragrance shed;
