To a Family Bible

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently? Of anxious looks beguiled,
My mother’s eyes upon thy page divine
Each day were bent--her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wander’d on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh-discover’d nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on thy waken’d spirit, there to be
A seed not lost,--for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart-blessings on the holy dead and thee!