Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/194

Rh

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."