“The damps of death are com­ing fast,
My fa­ther, o’er my brow;
The past with all its scenes has fled,
And I must turn me now
To that dim fu­ture that in vain
My fee­ble eyes des­cry;
Tell me, O fa­ther, in this hour,
In whose stern faith to die.

“In thine? I’ve watched thy scorn­ful smile,
And heard thy wi­ther­ing tone,
Whene’er the Christ­ian’s hum­ble hope
Was placed above thine own;
I’ve heard thee speak of com­ing death
Without a shade of gloom,
And laugh at all the child­ish fears
That clus­ter round the tomb.

“Or is it in my mo­ther’s faith?
How fond­ly do I trace
Thro’ ma­ny a wea­ry year long past,
That calm and saint­ly face;
How oft­en do I call to mind,
Now she is ’neath the sod,
The place—the hour—in which she drew
My ear­ly thoughts to God.

“’Twas then she took this sac­red book,
And from its burn­ing page
Read how its truths sup­port the soul,
In youth and fail­ing age;
And bade me in its pre­cepts live,
And by its pre­cepts die;
That I might share a home of love,
In worlds be­yond the sky.

My fa­ther, shall I look above,
Amid this ga­ther­ing gloom,
To Him whose pro­mis­es of love
Extend be­yond the tomb?
Or curse the Be­ing who hath blessed
This check­ered path of mine;
Must I em­brace my mo­ther’s faith,
Or die, my sire, in thine?

The frown upon that war­ri­or brow
Passed like a cloud away,
And tears coursed down the rug­ged cheek
That flowed not till that day.
Not—not in mine, with chok­ing voice
The skep­tic made re­ply,
But in thy mother’s ho­ly faith,
My daughter, may’st thou die!