Ethan Allen, The Infidel, And His Daughter.
“The damps of death are coming fast,
My father, o'er my brow;
The past, with all its scenes, are fled,
And I must turn me now
To that dim future which, in vain,
My feeble eyes descry.
Tell me, my father, in this hour,
In whose stern faith to die.
“In thine? I've watched the 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 my mother's faith?
How fondly do I trace,
Through 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 the gathering gloom,
To him whose promises of love
Extend beyond the tomb
Or curse the being who hath blessed
This chequered path of mine,
And promises eternal rest,
And 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, mayst thou die.”
—Virginia Missionary.