Tenderly we turn the sacred pages o’er,
And read the record of the days of yore.
There have been changes in these homes since then,
For time is ever busy in the haunts of men,
And, mingling with the music of delight,
Are minor strains within our hearts to-night,
As we recall the voices hushed and still,
Of friends who rest on yonder churchyard hill,
Fathers and mothers who long since went o’er
The river we call death. From that near shore