My Mother's Bible.

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 hearth-stone 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 leaned God's word to hear!
Her angel face--I see it yet!
    What vivid memories come!--
Again that little group is met
    Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
    Thy constancy I've tried:
Where all were false I found thee true,
    My counselor 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.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Epigram. On Hearing that Morse Did Not "Invent" the Telegraph

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Lucy.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Exile to his Sister.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Day is Now Dawning.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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My Mother's Kiss.

My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,
    I feel its impress now;
As in the bright and happy days
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You say it is a fancied thing
    Within my memory fraught;
To me it has a sacred place -
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Again, I feel her fingers glide
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Again, I hear her gentle voice
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How precious was the faith that taught
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The music of her voice is stilled,
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The Shunamite.[A]

It was a sultry day of summer time.
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.

'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,
'Thy father is athirst' - and from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
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She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
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A Faded Letter.

I.

O what memories sweet entwine
Around each word and faded line!
Yellow and dim with the touch of years,
And soiled with the marks of tears--
A sacred treasure of the heart
Which death alone can from him part--
A letter--cherished as no other--
And ending with the name of--Mother!


II.

Writ it was to a wayward boy,
When life to him seemed full of joy--
Pleading with him so to live
That he her heart no grief would give--
That after years might ne'er be fraught
With sorrow that himself had wrought:--
"May guardian angels 'round you hover,"
She wrote--and signed the name of--Mother!


III.

The paper has the taint of must--
The hand that traced the lines is dust,
And silvery hair is on the head
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Bereavement.

(Job iii. 26)


It was not that I lived a life of ease,
    Quiet, secure, apart from every care;
For on the darkest of my anxious days
    I thought my burden more than I could bear.
The shadow of a coming trouble fell
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    Trembled, not knowing what I had to fear.
The hand that held events I might not stay,
But creeping to His footstool I could pray.

With sad forebodings I kept watch and ward
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For My Friend Mrs. R.

When writing to you, friend, a subject I'd find
In which there's both pleasure and profit combined,
And though what I've chosen may pain in review,
Yet still there's strange mingling of pleasure there too.
Then let us go back many years that are past,
And glance at those days much too happy to last.
I have seen thee, my friend, when around thy bright hearth
Not a seat was found vacant, but gladness and mirth
Kept high holiday there, and many a time
Were mingled in pastime my children with thine.
I've looked in again, the destroyer had come,
And changed the whole aspect of that happy home.
He entered that dwelling, and rudely he tore
From the arms of his mother, her most cherished flower.
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The Old-Fashioned Bible

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood
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The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,
    The rail fence, and horses all tethered thereto;
The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,
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As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people
    To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.
    The old-fashioned Bible -
        The dust-covered Bible -
    The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

The blessed old volume! The face bent above it -
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Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it
    Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear,
And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,
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James Whitcomb Riley