Confession and an Offering of Poetry

Okay, I'll admit it, I have been slack... In an attempt to get this house tidy, combined with the joys of pregnancy, I haven't written anything for this week... I know! Its terrible! I hope you will accept the following as a peace offering: I have taken this from one of my favourite books of poetry, "The Collected Work of Felicia Hemans"

T'was early Day, and sunlight streamed
Soft through a quiet room.
That hushed, hut not forsaken, seemed,
Still, but with naught of gloom.
For there, serene in happy age.
Whose hope is from above,
A Father communed with the page
Of Heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his grey holy hair,
And touched the page with tenderest light,
As if us shrine were there
But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier far-
A radiance all the spirit's own.
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm, benignant eye,
Some ancient promise, breathing yet
Of immortality :
Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow
Of quenchless faith survives :
For every feature said- "I know
That my Redeemer lives"

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity
Of thoughts o'ersweeping death.
Silent yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt
Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt

This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs. Joanne Baillie, was to her "a thing set apart," as being the the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish "that Mrs. Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughters heart:" -

Upon going into our dear father's sitting room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and, being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer has passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, "Oh! if Mrs. Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene; for even as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.
December 9th, 1826

The Poetical Works of Felicia Hemans, Ed. William Micheal Rossetti, London:Ward, Lock, & Bowden, Ltd. p.465