 | Wood-notes and Church-bells |  |
47
THE LITTLE CHILD AND THE THUNDERSTORM.
He listened, as the thunder rolled on high,And whispered ‘Hark,’ with infantine alarm
And finger raised—then hastened to my arm
For shelter from the tumult of the sky.
What could avail all heaven's artillery
Against the power of that encircling charm?
He felt himself incapable of harm
Beneath a father's touch and voice and eye.
Oh, ponder well this parable, my soul,
And from a little child the lesson learn,
Whither for instant succour thou may'st turn
When threatening clouds of danger o'er thee roll;
God is thy help—no evil can betide
A child that nestles at his Father's side!
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