By Hattie Bell
April 5, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 27. Page 1
Come to my grave at early dawn,
When song-birds sing a welcome morn,
When the lark soars to blue skies above
Trilling its morning song of love;
When the violets and daisies over me bloom,
Then will you come to my lonely tomb?
Come when the mid-day sun is keeping
Watch o’er the spot where I’m quietly sleeping,
When the zephyrs float through blooming bowers,
Waking to beauty the sleeping flowers;
When the streamlet flows on, and the willows wave,
Then will you come to my silent grave?
Come when the vesper bell is pealing,
And evening’s shades are softly stealing;
When the sun sheds a glow on the rippling rills,
As it slowly sinks behind western hills;
When the soft south wind steals over the sea,
Then will you come, and think kindly of me?
Come in the silent hours of night,
When the moon is beaming with silver light,
And the angels are hanging their lamps on high.
To gem with diamonds the azure sky;
Then come by the path that I loved to roam,
And think I have gone to a brighter home.