A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE.

———

BY R. H. STODDARD.

———

I’ve lost my little May at last;

She perished in the Spring,

When earliest flowers began to bud,

And earliest birds to sing;

I laid her in a country grave,

A rural, soft retreat,

A marble tablet o’er her head

And violets at her feet!

I would that she were back again,

In all her childish bloom;

My joy and hope have followed her,

My heart is in her tomb;

I know that she is gone away,

I know that she is fled,

I miss her everywhere, and yet

I cannot make her dead!

I wake the children up at dawn,

And say a simple prayer,

And draw them round the morning meal,

But one is wanting there;

I see a little chair apart,

A little pin-a-fore,

And Memory fills the vacancy,

As Time will—nevermore!

I sit within my room, and write

The lone and weary hours,

And miss the little maid again

Among the window flowers;

And miss her with her toys beside

My desk in silent play,

And then I turn and look for her,

But she has flown away!

I drop my idle pen and hark,

And catch the faintest sound;

She must be playing hide-and-seek

In shady nooks around;

She’ll come and climb my chair again.

And peep my shoulder o’er,

I hear a stifled laugh—but no,

She cometh nevermore!

I waited only yester night,

The evening service read,

And lingered for my idol’s kiss,

Before she went to bed,

Forgetting she had gone before,

In slumbers soft and sweet,

A monument above her head,

And violets at her feet!