Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Three Little Graves
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.
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."