The Sunday Book

Read to him, Connie, read as you sit,
Cosy and warm in the great arm-chair,
Let your hand press lovingly, lightly there,
Let the gentle touch of your sunny hair
Over his cheek like a soft breeze flit.
Read to him, Connie ! The house is still,
The week-day lessons, the week-day play;
And the week-day worries are hushed away
In the golden calm of the Holy Day ;
He will listen now if ever he will.
Read to him, Connie, read while you may !
For the years will pass, and he must go
Out in the cold world's treacherous flow,
Danger and trial and evil to know, —
He may drift in the dark, far, far away !

Now he is happy and safe in the nest,
Teach him to warble the songs of home,
Teach him to soar but never to roam,
Only to soar to a starry dome,
Linking with heaven the hearts he loves best
Read to him, Connie ! Read what you love,
Holy and sweet be your Sabbath choice ;
And the music that dwells in a sister's voice
Shall lure him to listen while angels rejoice,
As the soft tones blend with the harps above.
Read to him, Connie ! Read of the ONE
Who loves him most, yes, more than you !
Read of that love, so great, so true,
Love everlasting, yet ever new ;
For who can tell but his heart may be won !

Read to him, Connie ! For it may be
That your Sunday book, like a silver bar
Of steady light from a guiding star,
May gleam in memory, clear and far,
Across the waves of a wintry sea.