The child so loved, the child so young,
Grew paler day by day—
A weight upon his spirits hung,
They watched him pine away.
One night upon his mother's arm
He leant his weary head;
She whispered many a prayer and charm
In vain—the child was dead!
They laid him in a little grave,
Washed by the morning dew,
Which falls whene'er the pine boughs wave,
As they were weeping too.
Still night and morn upon the wind
Was heard her funeral cry—
"My child, why am I left behind?
My child, why would'st thou die?"
The father's moan was never heard—
None saw him weep or sigh;
Upon his lip there was no word,
But death was in his eye.
The moon above the funeral ground
Had just her race begun;
The hunter, ere her orb was round,
Lay sleeping with his son.
And then the mother ceased to weep,
And, with a patient grief,
Sang her sad songs, and strewed their sleep
With many a flower and leaf.
A white man, who was wandering 'lone
From some far distant shore,
And, wondering, asked, "When all are gone,
Why dost thou weep no more?"
