Part 3 (1/2)

And stalwart men are dumb with grief, And sorrow pales the sternest cheek, While gentler women find relief, In tears--more eloquent than speech.

Surely there is some fairer land, Where friends who love each other here Can dwell, united heart and hand, Nor death nor separation fear.

Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears; Fond father, raise thy drooping head; Kind brothers, banish all your fears; Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead,

The care-worn casket rests in dust, The fadeless jewel wings its flight To that fair land, we humbly trust, To s.h.i.+ne with ever glowing light.

For, on that ever-vernal sh.o.r.e, When death's appalling stream is cross'd, Your star will s.h.i.+ne forevermore, Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost.

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ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON.

She is not dead, but sleepeth.

--Luke 8:52.

She is not dead, she's sleeping The dreamless sleep and drear; Her friends are gathered weeping Round her untimely bier.

She is not dead, her spirit, Too pure to dwell with clay, Has gone up to inherit The realms of endless day.

She is not dead, she's singing With angel bands on high; On golden harp she's singing G.o.d's praises in the sky.

She is not dead, O mother, Your loss you will deplore; Kind sisters and fond brother, Your Nora is no more!

No more, as we have seen her, The light and life of home, Of christian-like demeanor, Which ever brightly shone:

Of youth the guide and teacher, Of age the stay and hope-- To all a faithful preacher, To whom we all looked up.

She is not dead, she's sleeping, Her loving Saviour said; Then friends repress your weeping, G.o.d's will must be obeyed.

She is not dead, she's s.h.i.+ning In robes of spotless white; Why then are we repining?

G.o.d's ways are always right.

She is not dead--O never Will sorrow cross her track; She's pa.s.sed Death's darksome river, And who would have her back?

Back from the joys of heaven!

Back from that world of bliss!

Call back the pure, forgiven, To such a world as this?

A world of grief and anguish-- A world of sin and strife-- In which the righteous languish, And wickedness is rife,

She is not dead, she's shouting, Borne on triumphant wing, ”O grave, where is thy vict'ry, O Death, where is thy sting?”

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