I love to hear the little birds
That carol on the trees;
I love the gentle, murmuring stream;
I love the evening breeze.
I love to hear the busy hum
Of honey-making bee,
And learn a lesson,—hard to learn,—
Of patient industry.
I love to think of Him who made
Those pleasant things for me,
Who gave me life, and health, and strength,
And eyes, that I might see.
The child who raises, morn and eve,
In prayer its tiny voice
Who grieves whene’er its parents grieve,
And joys when they rejoice,—
In whose bright eyes young genius glows,
Whose heart, without a blot,
Is fresh and pure as summer’s rose,—
That child’s a sunny spot.
LIKE JESUS.
I want to be like Jesus,
So lowly and so meek;
For no one marked an angry word,
Whoever heard him speak.
I want to be like Jesus,
So frequently in prayer;
Alone upon the mountain top,
He met his Father there.
I want to be like Jesus:
I never, never find,
That he, though persecuted, was
To any one unkind.
I want to be like Jesus,
Engaged in doing good;
So that of me it may be said,
I have done what I could.
I HAVE A HOME.
I have a home in which to live,
A bed to rest upon,
Good food to eat, and fire to warm,
And raiment to put on.
Kind parents, full of gentle love,
Brothers and sisters, too,
With many faithful, loving friends,
Who teach me what to do.
How many little children have
No food, nor clothes to wear,
No house, nor home, nor parents kind,
To guide them by their care.
For all Thy bounty, O my God,
May I be grateful found,
And ever show my love to Thee,
By loving all around.
GOD.
God!—What a great and holy name!
Oh! who can speak His worth?
By saints in heaven He is adored,
Obeyed by men on earth
And yet a little child may bend
And say: “My Father and my Friend.”
The glorious sun, which blazes high,
The moon, more pale and dim,
And all the stars which fill the sky,
Are made and ruled by Him:
And yet a child may ask His care,
And call upon His name in prayer.
And this large world of ours below,
The waters and the land,
And all the trees and flowers that grow,
Were fashioned by His hand;
Yes,—and He forms our infant race,
And even I may seek His face.
THE BIRD’S NEST.
There’s a nest in the hedge-row,
Half bid by the leaves,
And the sprays, white with blossom,
Bend o’er it like eaves.
God gives birds their lodging,
He gives them their food,
And they trust He will give them
Whatever is good.
Ah! when our rich blessings,
My child, we forget;
When for some little trouble
We murmur and fret;
Hear sweet voices singing
In hedges and trees:
Shall we be less thankful,
Less trustful than these?
THE LARK.
Ah! little lark, I see you there,
So very, very high;
Just like a little, tiny speck
Up in the clear blue sky.
How good is He, who strengthens thus
Your slight and tender wing,
And teaches such a little throat
So sweet a song to sing.
EFFORT.
Scorn not the slightest word nor deed,
Nor deem it void of power;
There’s fruit in each wind-wafted seed,
That waits its natal hour.
A whispered word may touch the heart,
And call it back to life;
A look of love bid sin depart,
And still unholy strife.
No act falls fruitless; none can tell
How vast its powers may be,
Nor what results, unfolded, dwell
Within it, silently.
Work on,—despair not,—bring thy mite,
Nor care how small it be;
God is with all who serve the right,
The holy, true, and free.
THE SEA SHELL.
There is found a tiny sea shell,
Half-imbedded in the sand,
Sometimes flashing in the moonlight,
Like a diamond on the strand.
And from out the winding chambers
That are hid within the shell,
Ever steals a curious music,
That doth never sink nor swell.
But, like the far-off voice of ocean,
Murmurs forth its monotone,
Holding thus within its bosom
E’er an ocean of its own.
Thus the sea shells ever gather
Little oceans in their breasts,
Which do echo there for ever
Ocean’s hymn, which never rests.
Thus the soul will echo music,
Born in heaven, and not of earth;
And give praises all, for ever,
To the One that gave it birth.
GOD IS GOOD.
Morn amid the mountains,
Lovely solitude,
Gushing streams and fountains,
Murmur, “God is good.”
Now the glad sun, breaking,
Pours a golden flood;
Deepest vales awaking,
Echo, “God is good.”
Wake and join the chorus,
Man with soul endued!
He, whose smile is o’er us,
God,—our God,—is good.
DESPISE NOT SIMPLE THINGS.
Despise not simple things:
The humblest flower that wakes
In early spring, to scent the air
Of woodland brakes,
Should have thy love as well
As blushing parlor rose,
That never felt the perfect breath
Of nature round it close.
Despise not simple things:
The poor demand thy love,
As well as those who in the halls
Of splendor move.
The beggar at thy door
Thou shouldst not e’er despise;
For that may be a noble heart
Which ’neath his tatters lies.
Despise not little things:
An ant can teach of toil;
The buttercup can light the heart
With its own pleasant smile;
’Tis not from towering heights alone
The noble thought within us springs;
There’s something holy and sublime
In the love of simple things.
THE VIOLET.
“Oh, mother! mother! only look!
See what I’ve got for thee;
I found it close beside the brook,—
This pretty violet,—see.
“And father says there will be more
So, mother, when they come,
We’ll pick my little basket full,
And bring them with us home.
“And, mother,—only listen now!
’Tis very strange, indeed,—
This pretty flower, with leaves and all,
Was once a little seed.
“When it was planted in the ground,
The sun shone very bright,
And made the little seed so warm,
It grew with all its might.”
“Yes, Charles: the bright sun made it warm,
’Twas wet with rain and dew;
The leaves came first, and then, ere long,
We found the violet blue.
“Charley, I think when we are good,
Obedient, and kind,
Good feelings, like the little flowers,
Are growing in the mind.
“But when we suffer evil thoughts
To grow and flourish there,
Then they are like the noxious weeds,
That choke the flowerets fair.”
CHILD’S TALENT
God intrusts to all
Talents, few or many;
None so young or small,
That they have not any.
Though the great and wise
May have more in number,
Yet my own I prize,
And they must not slumber.
Little drops of rain.
Bring the springing flowers;
And I may attain
Much by little powers.
Every little mite,
Every little measure,
Helps to spread the light,
Helps to swell the treasure.
THE STARS ARE COMING.
“See, the stars are coming
In the far blue skies;
Mother, look! they brighten;
Are they angels’ eyes?”
“No, my child; the lustre
Of the stars is given,
Like the hues of flowers,
By the God of heaven.”
“Mother, if I study,
Sure He’ll make me know
Why the stars He kindled,
O’er our earth to glow?”
“Child! what God created,
Has a glorious aim;
Thine it is to worship,—
Thine to love His name.”
THE FLOWERS.
God might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.
He might have made enough,—enough
For every want of ours,—
For luxury, medicine, and food,
And yet have made no flowers.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
And dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night.
In fertile valleys, green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no one passes by.
Our outward life requires them not,—
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,
And beautify the earth.
To comfort man,—to whisper hope,
Whene’er his faith is dim;
For He, who careth for the flowers,
Will surely care for him.
LITTLE BY LITTLE.
One step, and then another,
And the longest walk is ended;
One stitch and then another,
And the largest rent is mended
One brick upon another,
And the highest wall is made;
One flake upon another,
And the deepest snow is laid.
So the little coral workers,
By their slow, but constant, motion,
Have built those pretty islands
In the distant, dark blue ocean;
And the noblest undertakings
Man’s wisdom hath conceived,
By oft-repeated efforts
Have been patiently achieved.
NEVER, MY CHILD, FORGET TO PRAY.
Never, my child, forget to pray,
Whate’er the business of the day;
If happy dreams have blessed thy sleep,
Or startling fears have made thee weep.
With holy thoughts begin the day,
And ne’er, my child, forget to pray;
Ask Him, by whom the birds are fed,
To give to thee thy daily bread.
If wealth her bounty should bestow,
Praise Him from whom all blessings flow;
If He, who gave, should take away,
Never, my child, forget to pray.
The time will come, when thou wilt miss
A father’s and a mother’s kiss;
And then, my child, perchance thou’lt see,
Some who, in prayer, ne’er bend the knee;
From such examples turn away,
And ne’er, my child, forget to pray.
THE CHILD’S PRAYER.
I am a very little child,
Yet God, who dwells above,
Will hear me, if I rightly pray,
And answer me in love.
Heavenly Father! wilt thou bless
My father and my mother;
And also bless my sister dear;
And bless my baby brother.
Forgive me, if I’ve been to-day
A very naughty child;
And teach me how I may become
A boy both good and mild.
And keep me out of every ill;
And teach me how to pray,
That I may be a better child
On every coming day.
A CHILD-LIKE SPIRIT.
Father, I know that all my life
Is portioned out for me,
The changes that will surely come,
I do not fear to see;
I ask Thee for a present mind,
Intent on pleasing thee.
I ask thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,
To meet the glad with joyful smiles,
And wipe the weeping eyes;
A heart at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathize.
I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro,
And seeks for some great thing to do,
Or secret thing to know:
I would be treated as a child,
And guided where I go.
Wherever in the world I am,
In whatsoe’er estate,
I have a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate;
A work of lowly love to do,
For Him on whom I wait.
I ask Thee for the daily strength
To none that ask denied;
A mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at Thy side;
Content to fill a little space,
If Thou be glorified.
And if some things I do not ask
In my cup of blessing be,
I’d have my spirit filled the more
With grateful love to Thee,—
More careful not to serve Thee much,
But please Thee perfectly.
LIVE FOR SOMETHING.
Live for something, be not idle,
Look about thee for employ,
Sit not down to useless dreaming,—
Labor is the sweetest joy.
Folded hands are ever weary,
Selfish hearts are never gay,
Life for thee hath many duties,—
Active be, then, whilst thou may.
Scatter blessings in thy pathway!
Gentle words and cheering smiles
Better are than gold and silver,
With their grief-dispelling wiles.
As the pleasant sunshine falleth
Ever on the grateful earth,
So let sympathy and kindness
Gladden well the darkened hearth.
Hearts there are oppressed and weary,—
Drop the tear of sympathy;
Whisper words of hope and comfort;
Give, and thy reward shall be
Joy unto thy soul returning,
From this perfect fountain-head;
Freely, as thou freely givest,
Shall the grateful light be shed.
THE BEAUTIFUL.
The beautiful! the beautiful!
Where do we find it not?
It is an all-pervading grace,
And lighteth every spot.
It sparkles on the ocean wave,
It glitters in the dew;
We see it in the glorious sky.
And in the floweret’s hue.
On mountain-top, in valley deep,
We find its presence there;
The beautiful! the beautiful!
It liveth every where.
The glories of the noontide day,
The still and solemn night;
The changing seasons,—all can bring
Their tribute of delight.
There’s beauty in the child’s first smile;
And in that look of faith,
The Christian’s last on earth, before
His eyes are closed in death.
And in the beings that we love,
Who have our tenderest care,
The beautiful! the beautiful!
How sweet to trace it there!
’Twas in the glance that God threw o’er
The young created earth;
When He proclaimed it very good,
The beautiful had birth.
Then who shall say this world is dull,
And all to sadness given,
While yet there grows on every side,
The smile that came from heaven?
If so much loveliness is sent
To grace our earthly home,
How beautiful! how beautiful!
Will be the world to come.
DON’T KILL THE BIRDS.
Don’t kill the birds!—the little birds,
That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come,
And chilling storms are o’er.
The little birds!—how sweet they sing!
Oh! let them joyous live;
And do not seek to take the life
Which you can never give.
Don’t kill the birds!—the pretty birds,
That play among the trees!
’Twould make the earth a cheerless place,
Should we dispense with these.
Don’t kill the birds!—the happy birds,
That bless the field and grove;
So innocent to look upon,—
They claim our warmest love.
LITTLE ACTS OF KINDNESS.
Little acts of kindness,
Trifling though they are,
How they serve to brighten
This dark world of care!
Little acts of kindness,
Oh, how potent they,
To dispel the shadows
Of life’s cloudy day.
Little acts of kindness,
How they cheer the heart!
What a world of gladness
Will a smile impart!
How a gentle accent
Calms the troubled soul,
When the waves of passion
O’er it wildly roll!
You may have around you
Sunshine, if you will,
Or a host of shadows,
Gloomy,—dreary,—chill.
If you want the sunshine,
Smile, though sad at heart;
To the poor and needy
Kindly aid impart.
To the soul-despairing
Breathe a hopeful word;
From your lips be only
Tones of kindness heard.
Ever give for anger,
Love and tenderness;
And, in blessing others.
You yourself will bless.
Little acts of kindness,
Nothing do they cost;
Yet when they are wanting,
Life’s best charm is lost.
Little acts of kindness,
Richest gems of earth;
Though they seem but trifles,
Priceless is their worth.
* * * * *
If wisdom’s ways you wisely seek,
Five things observe with care:—
To whom you speak,—of whom you speak,—
And how,—and when,—and where.
THE BLESSINGS.
Blessed are the poor in spirit,
They the kingdom shall possess,
Rich in faith and heavenly blessings,
Let us ever forward press.
Blessed are the sad and mournful,
Weeping o’er their treasures gone
For the darkness gathered o’er them
Is the harbinger of morn.
Blessed are the meek and lowly,
They the green earth shall inherit;
Full of love, and peace, and gladness,
Fruits of God’s most Holy Spirit.
Blessed they who thirst and hunger;
All their wants shall be supplied;
Never yet have been forsaken
They, who on their God relied.
Blessed they who, loving mercy,
Joy not in another’s pain;
All the mercy shown to others
They shall for themselves obtain.
Blessed are the pure and prayerful,
Seeking God in every place;
They shall in their home eternal
See Him ever face to face.
Blessed are the good peace-makers,
For God’s children they shall be;
Of His glory full partakers,
When from earth their spirits flee.
Blessed ye, when men revile you,
Treat you falsely for My sake;
For the prophets gone before you
Did the self-same treatment take.
Let us then be ever mindful
Of the precepts Christ has given;
So that when this life is over,
We may dwell with Him in heaven.
WHEN FATHER COMES HOME.
When my father comes home in the evening from work,
Then I will get up on his knee,
And tell him how many nice lessons I learn,
And show him how good I can be.
He shall hear what number I know how to count;
I’ll tell him what words I can spell;
And if I can learn something new every day,
I hope soon to read very well.
I’ll repeat to him all the good verses I know,
And tell him how kind we must be,
That we never must hurt little creatures at all:
And he will be glad, and love me.
I’ll tell him we always must try to please God,
And never be cruel or rude;
For God is the Father of all living things,
He cares for and blesses the good.
HARVEST-FIELD OF TIME
Children, all of us are gleaners
In the harvest-field of time;
Day by day the grain is ripening
For a sunnier clime.
Whether in the early morning,
Going forth with busy feet,
Or, as weary laborers, resting
’Mid the noon-day heat;
Let us strive, with cheerful spirits,
Each our duties to fulfil,
Till the time of harvest,—subject
To the Master’s will.
Let us garner up sweet memories,
Bound with ties of love;
Pleasant thoughts to cheer the pathway
To our home above.
Trusting that these precious gleanings,
Bound with loving hand,
May in golden sheaves be gathered
To the spirit land.
PRAYER.
Watch o’er me, Heavenly Shepherd,
Extend Thy crook of love,
That so no germ of anger
A source of trial prove.
Keep me within Thy pastures,
And feed me from Thy hand;
Let no temptation snare me,
Or tear me from Thy hand.
May innocence and purity
My clothing ever be,
That though this earth is still my home,
I may walk close to Thee.
REFLECTIONS.
We’re just starting into life,—
What shall arm us for its strife?
What shall lead our steps aright?
Whence shall come a guiding light?
Whence shall come the saving word?
How the voice of God be heard?
Not from sages,—not from books,
Nor twinkling stars, nor babbling brooks.
These all speak His power and love,
Who rules below, and rules above;
But to know His holy will,
Oft in silence deep and still,
We must turn an ear within;
There, midst life’s disturbing din,
The “still, small voice,” in whispers sweet
Shall point our way and guide our feet.
WHAT IS HEAVEN?
Love is heaven, and heaven is love,
This is all of heaven above;
There no envy, wrath, nor strife,
Mars the bliss of endless life.
There no anger swells the breast,
There no pride disturbs the rest;
Nor can hatred dwell above,
In that world of perfect love.
THE CHILD’S MONITOR.
The wind blows down the largest tree,
And yet the wind I cannot see.
Playmates far off, that have been kind,
My thought can bring before my mind.
The past, by it, is present brought,
And yet I cannot see my thought.
The charming rose perfumes the air,
Yet I can see no perfume there.
Blithe Robin’s notes,—how sweet! how clear!
From his small bill they reach my ear;
And while upon the air they float,
I hear, yet cannot see, a note.
When I would do what is forbid,
By something in my heart I’m chid;
When good I think, then quick and pat,
That something says, “My child, do that.”
When I too near the stream would go,
So pleased to see the waters flow,
That something says without a sound,
“Take care, dear child, thou mayst be drowned!”
And for the poor whene’er I grieve,
That something says, “A penny give.”
Thus spirits good and ill there be,
Although invisible to me;
Whate’er I do, they see me still,
But oh, good spirits! guide my will.
GIVE US OUR DAILY BREAD.
I knew a widow very poor,
Who four small children had;
The eldest was but six years old,
A gentle, modest lad.
And very hard this widow toiled
To feed her children four:
An honest pride the woman felt,
Though she was very poor.
To labor she would leave her home,
For children must be fed;
And glad was she when she could buy
A shilling’s worth of bread.
And this was all the children had,
On any day to eat;
They drank their water, ate their bread,
But never tasted meat.
One day, when snow was falling fast,
And piercing was the air,
I thought that I would go and see
How these poor children were.
Ere long I reached their cheerless home,
’Twas searched by every breeze;
When going in, the eldest child
I saw upon his knees.
I paused, and listened to the boy,—
He never raised his head;
But still went on and said,—“Give us
This day our daily bread.”
I waited till the child was done,
Still listening as he prayed;
And when he rose, I asked him why
The Lord’s Prayer he had said.
“Why, sir,” said he, “this morning, when
My mother went away,
She wept because, she said, she had
No bread for us to-day.
“She said, we children now must starve,
Our father being dead;
And then I told her not to cry,
For I could get some bread.
“Our Father, sir, the prayer begins,
Which makes me think that He,
As we have got no father here,
Would our kind father be.
“And then, you know, the prayer, sir, too,
Asks God for bread each day;
So, in the corner, sir, I went,
And that’s what made me pray.”
I quickly left that wretched room,
And went with fleeting feet;
And very soon was back again
With food enough to eat.
“I thought God heard me,” said the boy;
I answered with a nod;
I could not speak; but much I thought
Of that child’s faith in God.
TRUE REST.
Sweet is the pleasure
Itself cannot spoil!
Is not true leisure
One with true toil?
Thou, that would taste it,
Still do thy best;
Use it, not waste it,
Else, ’tis no rest.
Wouldst behold beauty
Near thee, all round?
Only hath duty
Such a sight found.
Rest is not quitting
The busy career;
Rest is the fitting
Of self to its sphere.
’Tis the brook’s motion,
Clear without strife,
Fleeing to ocean,
After its life.
Deeper devotion
Nowhere hath knelt,
Fuller emotion
Heart never felt.
’Tis loving and serving,
The highest and best!
’Tis onward,—unswerving,—
And that is true rest.
ONE BY ONE.