THE FUNERAL OF A DOLL.
They used to call her Little Nell,
In memory of that lovely child
Whose story each had learned to tell.
She, too, was slight and still and mild,
Blue-eyed and sweet; she always smiled,
And never troubled any one
Until her pretty life was done.
And so they tolled a tiny bell
That made a wailing fine and faint,
As fairies ring, and all was well.
Then she became a waxen saint.
In memory of that lovely child
Whose story each had learned to tell.
She, too, was slight and still and mild,
Blue-eyed and sweet; she always smiled,
And never troubled any one
Until her pretty life was done.
And so they tolled a tiny bell
That made a wailing fine and faint,
As fairies ring, and all was well.
Then she became a waxen saint.
Her funeral it was small and sad.
Some birds sang bird-hymns in the air.
The humming-bee seemed hardly glad,
Spite of the honey everywhere.
The very sunshine seemed to wear
Some thought of death, caught in its gold
That made it waver wan and cold.
Then, with what broken voice he had,
The preacher slowly murmured on
(With many warnings to the bad)
The virtues of the darling gone.
Some birds sang bird-hymns in the air.
The humming-bee seemed hardly glad,
Spite of the honey everywhere.
The very sunshine seemed to wear
Some thought of death, caught in its gold
That made it waver wan and cold.
Then, with what broken voice he had,
The preacher slowly murmured on
(With many warnings to the bad)
The virtues of the darling gone.
