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.