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Range round the garden-walk, whose low ground-flowers
Were peeping forth, shy messengers of spring,—
Even at that hopeful time,—the winds of March,
One sunny day, smiting insidiously,
Raised in the tender passage of the throat
Viewless obstruction; whence—all unforewarned,
The Household lost their hope and soul's delight.
—But Providence, that gives and takes away
By his own law, is merciful and just;
Time wants not power to soften all regrets,
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears
Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own,
Yet this departed Little-one, too long
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps
In what may now be called a peaceful grave.
On a bright day, the brightest of the year,
These mountains echoed with an unknown sound,
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse
Let down into the hollow of that Grave,
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mold.
