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.
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