A flower just newly blown he was, pluck’d from his mother’s breast;
In yonder sweet sequestered spot, where verdant branches wave,
The funeral train have gather’d now, beside an open grave.
Hark! hear ye not that solemn voice? It is the voice of prayer;
And reverently each listener his bowed head doth bare;
The youthful and the aged man, the man in nature’s prime,
All bow before the King of Kings. Who would not bow to Him?
The mother leans in silence there, upon a stranger’s arm;
Her thoughts are with her angel boy, now safe from every harm.
No more she sees the funeral train—the gentle and the brave;