Little Nora

I ask'd of little Nora, but he gave
A piteous sigh — his answer did not come;
My friend stood gazing on his daughter's tomb,
Till, with a sudden shame, I saw it too;
At last he said: ' She died three moons ago: '
So long entomb'd had little Nora been,
So long I knew not of her father's woe!
Then came her portrait forth, which I had seen,
And he had shown with pride, when last we met;
The same bright smile — the rose-o'erladen arms,
And all her pretty sum of infant-charms;
But lo! a fair memorial tress was set,
Facing the porcelain picture, where his child
Still nursed her pile of summer-wreaths and smiled.