Classic Poem

THE twilight vale is still,
A hush is on the hill, —
A solemn murmur, which my spirit feels;
Flapping the air is heard
The wing of the wild bird,
As down the moor his homeward course he wheels.

Alone I sit, and seem
Like one who has a dream;
Before me lies the Bible of my sire,
The book which was his guide
Across life's treacherous tide,
Until he join'd the high angelic choir.

I see his traces here,
The stain of many a tear,
The finger-mark on many a precious line
Which cheer'd him on his way
From morn till evening grey;
Then hope expired in ecstasy Divine.

I open it and read
Of Him who once did bleed
For guilty man upon the cross of wood;
And music, such as swells
Through Eden's holy dells,
Is gushing round me in a solemn flood.

The leaves are somewhat soil'd
Some corners, too, are coil'd;
No gilt could on its edges ever be;
No clasp of brass or gold
Did e'er its covers hold;
The print is large, and rather quaint to see.

I love it, for it bears
The mark of earnest prayers,
And sacred memories from it rise and fall:
Among the volumes here
None can be half so dear;
My father's Bible is the best of all!