THERE is one book, far dearer than the rest, Upon my treasured shelves: It is not bound In costly skin or vellum, yet profound Is the esteem and rev'rence in my breast, As I now lift it from its wonted place, To bless it first, and read it for a space:— It gives me comfort now, though time was when Fierce anguish smote my soul, as, all unseen, The crumbled leaves I turned, and saw between The crystal drops of sorrow once again Which wrung my blessed father's spirit then;— But now I read it, ever so serene, And close the Bible gently, when I've done, And kiss its covers, too, when I'm alone. |