Teachers,— she is not here
With the first breath of Spring
Her aid to your devoted band
With cheering smile and ready hand
Untiringly to bring.
Pupils,— her guiding voice,
Her sweetly warbled strain
Urging your spirits to be wise
With daily, tuneful harmonies
Ye shall not hear again.
Parents,— and loving friends
The parents’ heart who shared,
Give thanks to that abounding grace
Which led her through the Christian race,
To find its high reward.
Lover,— the spell is broke
That o'er your life she wove,
Look to her flitting robes that gleam
So white, beyond cold Jordan's stream,
Look to the Land of Love.