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.