Little Charlie

A violet grew by the river-side,
 And gladdened all hearts with its bloom;
While over the fields, on the scented air,
 It breathed a rich perfume.
But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky,
 And its portals were opened wide;
And the heavy rain beat down the flower
 That grew by the river-side.

Not far away in a pleasant home,
 There lived a little boy,
Whose cheerful face and childish grace
 Filled every heart with joy.
He wandered one day to the river's verge,
 With no one near to save;
And the heart that we loved with a boundless love
 Was stilled in the restless wave.

The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes,
 And we bade farewell to joy;
For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie
 To the grave of the little boy.
The birds still sing in the leafy tree
 That shadows the open door;
We heed them not, for we think of the voice
 That we shall hear no more.

We think of him at eventide,
 And gaze on his vacant chair
With a longing heart that will scarce believe
 That Charlie is not there.
We seem to hear his ringing laugh,
 And his bounding step at the door;
But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought,
 We shall never hear them more!                                

We shall walk sometimes to his little grave,
 In the pleasant summer hours;
We will speak his name in a softened voice,
 And cover his grave with flowers;
We will think of him in his heavenly home,—
 In his heavenly home so fair;
And we will trust with a hopeful trust
 That we shall meet him there.