The Infidel and His Daughter

“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!