'Tis the time of the year when the buds appear,
And the blackbird pipes his music shrill;
On the breeze there is balm, and a holy calm,
Whispers the troubled heart, “Be still! ”
Ah! how chang'd since we saw him last,
That mourner of twenty long winters past!
He halts and bends as he slowly wends—
Bereft! bereft! what hath he done?
That death should smite his only son!
Fix'd to the sod,