Excerpt from Echoes From the Highland Hills

In Memoriam.

He is not dead. He could not die,
His spirit has returned to God,
What cares that soul, released and free,
For mouldering body 'neath the sod?

The body dies: an empty shell,
It fills the dark and cheerless grave,
The mind, immortal, upward soars,
No longer bound to earth a slave.

They made his grave 'mid drifting snow,
While sadly blew the north-wind's breath,
And hid from sight that noble heart,
So calm, so still, - they call it death.

All were his friends, the loved, not lost,
And o'er the cold and pulseless clay
The tears of grief in anguish fall,
The drops of sorrow, naught can stay.

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