Shall meet face to face their beloved St. John.

Within the dwelling of Victor Roy,
A fair girl awakens soft music's power,
And a woman listens in silent joy,
To the thrilling strains at that quiet hour.

"Ethel, my child, cease playing, come to me,
There, lean your head upon your mother's knee,
Do you remember dear what night this is?
Look back at last St. John's day, then at this,
You've often wondered why upon that night,
When you my guide led from the gloom to light;
That when you gave the name Adair it seemed,
To him who heard it, as if he had dreamed.
Like a dim funeral knell from some old chime,
Heard years ago, in some far distant clime,
Ethel, we should speak kindly of the dead,
Unable to defend themselves, their spirits fled
To worlds unknown to us, we cannot see
The homes they occupy, the destiny
It pleases God to give them, this we know
That our reaping must be what we sow,
If we plant thistles, we the thorn shall meet,
If we sow ripe grains, we shall harvest wheat,
And something else we know of future life,
That be the memories of war and strife,
Of evil thoughts which may have been controlled
Of hearts through which wild passions unchecked rolled;
Of base mean deeds that burn like felon brand,