MISS. EMILY B. PARISH,

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.