My Mother’s Bible

George Pope Morris (1802–1864)

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 hearthstone 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 loved God’s word to hear!

Her angel face,—I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I ’ve tried;

When 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!