SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, 
   My little girl of six years old-- 
He used to be so good and brave, 
   The sweetest lamb of all our fold; 
He used to shout, he used to sing, 
Of all our tribe the little king-- 
And so unto the turf her ear she laid, 
To hark if still in that dark place he play'd. 
   No sound! no sound! 
   Death's silence was profound; 
   And horror crept 
   Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. 
   If this is as it ought to be, 
   My God, I leave it unto Thee.