THAT little grave, that grassy mound,
Beneath the dark yew-tree;
What cherish'd memories hover round,
And cast a spell o'er thee.
The first sweet flower that graced our lot
Lies calmly sleeping there;
Nor is that blighted bud forgot,
Though others bloom as fair.

Removed in childhood's guileless days
From earthly stain and ill,
His infant words, his loving ways,
Live in our memory still.
And though we hear his voice no more,
And miss his childish glee,
Which memory's throb shall oft restore,
We yield him, Lord, to Thee.

My little one! blest fate is thine,
Safe in the heavenly fold,
'Neath sheltering wings of love divine—
Of love that ne'er grows cold.
Sweet babe ! no sorrow hast thou now,
Thy sinless course is run;
And though we weep, we humbly bow,
And say, "Thy will be done!"