There stood the man; his burning tongue
Half cursing his intent,
As stealthily from Fanny’s breast
He took the Testament.
Not all a father’s love could break
The dread, the cursed spell
That binds the drunkard to his glass,
And drags his soul to hell.
But deaf to sweet affection’s voice,
Dead to the fear of sin,
Away he bore the cherished pledge
And bartered it for gin.
Now once again he dares beside
That wretched couch to stand;
And gazes on his dying child
The bottle in his hand.—
How shall he meet her dying face?
He dare not, cannot think,
But all reflection, all disgrace
Drowns in absorbing drink,—
But see! his little daughter wakes,
And seeks her book in vain,
Yet murmurs not—how calm she takes
The sickness and the pain.
But though the ghastly hues of death
O’er her wan features roll,
A beam of immortality
Is borrowed from the soul,
That lightens up her waning eye
With an unearthly light,
That tells the spirit plumes its wings
For an eternal flight.
“Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now;
Nay, father! do not weep!—
I know you took my Testament
When I was fast asleep.
“But I forgive you, father dear!
Come!—sit down by my side!—
Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven?
You know how hard I’ve tried.