A Father Reading the Bible

’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d
Soft through a quiet room,
That hush’d, but not forsaken seem’d,
Still, but with naught of gloom.
For there, serene in happy age
Whose hope is from above,
A father communed with the page
Of heaven’s recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his gray holy hair,
And touch’d the page with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there!
But oh! that patriarch’s aspect shone
With something lovelier far--
A radiance all the spirit’s own,
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e’en then had met
His calm, benignant eye;
Some ancient promise, breathing yet
Of immortality!
Some martyr’s prayer, wherein the glow
Of quenchless faith survives:
While every feature said--“I know
That my Redeemer lives!”

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity
Of thoughts o’ersweeping death.
Silent--yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt!