THE FIRST GRIEF.


[Illustration: Letter O.]

Oh! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?

The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight--
Oh! call my brother back.

The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden-tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load--
Oh! call him back to me.

"He would not hear my voice, fair child--
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see

[Illustration]