My Mother's Bible

THIS book is all that ’s left me now! Tears will unbidden start,— With faltering lip and throbbing brow I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother’s hands this Bible clasped, She, dying, gave it me. Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearth-stone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still. My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear; How calm was my poor mother’s look Who leaned God’s word to hear! Her angel face—I see it yet! What vivid memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home! Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I ’ve tried; Where all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide. The mines of earth no treasures give That could this volume buy: In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.