ad, 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
God'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,
God's will must be obeyed.

She is not dead, she's shining
In robes of spotless white;
Why then are we repining?
God's ways are always right.

She is not dead--O never
Will sorrow cross her track;
She's passed 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?"

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BURNITE WHO DIED FEBRUARY 2, 1878.

Thou, my friend, in dust art sleeping,
Closed thine eyes to all below;
Round thy grave kind friends are weeping,
Ling'ring, loath to let thee go.

Husband fond and children dear,
Crushed and stricken by the blow,
Banish ev'ry anxious fear,
While we lay the lov'd one low.

For the angel's trump shall sound,
And the bands of death will break;
Then the pris'ner in this mound
Shall to endless life awake.

Then the spirit which is gone
Will return and claim this dust,
And this "mortal will put on
Immortality," we trust.

When that glorious day shall dawn,
And the bridegroom shall descend
With a gorgeous angel throng,
The glad nuptials to attend,

Oh, the rapture of that meeting!
We of earth can never know
Till we mingle in the greeting,
Of our lov'd, lost long ago.

Let me like the righteous die,
Let my last end be like his;
When I close, on earth, my eye,
Let me wake in realms of bliss.

STANZAS

Read at the celebration of the seventy-second anniversary of the
birthday of Joseph St