By thy lowly grave, and a requiem sing
For the bud that died in its blossoming.
Yon star that is shining so brightly above,
Would tell thee a tale of God’s merciful love;
For e’en as it glows through the darkness of night,
Thy spirit shall beam in the land of light;
Thy mother, my dear one, awaits thee on high,
She would welcome her child to her home in the sky.”
“My mother!” she murmur’d—a sweet smile play’d
Round the tiny mouth, while the cool breeze stray’d