DEACON NORMAND SMITH,

One saintly man the less, to teach us how

Wisely to live,— one blest example more

To teach us how to die.

Fourscore and seven,

Swept not the beauty of his brow away,

Nor quell'd his voice of music, nor impair'd

The social feeling that through all his life

Ran like a thread of gold.

In filial arms

Close wrapp'd with watchful tenderness, he trod

Jordan's cold brink.

The world was beautiful,

But Christ's dear love so wrought within his heart

That to depart seem'd better.

Many a year

He lent his influence to the church he loved,

For unity and peace, and countless gems

Dropp'd from his lips when the last sickness came,

To fortify young pilgrims in the course

That leads to glory and eternal life.

As the frail flesh grew weak, the soul look'd forth

With added brightness thro’ the clear, dark eye,

As though it saw unutterable things,

Or heard the welcome of beloved ones

Who went to rest before him.

So, with smiles,

And prayers and holy hymns, and loving words

He laid the burden of the body down,

And slept in Jesus.