 | Knitting-work |  |
THE PREACHER AND THE CHILDREN.
He spake unto the little ones
In childhood's simplest, tenderest word,
While warm love trembled in his tones,
And eyes were moist and hearts were stirred.
The quivering lip and eager glance
Bespoke the young soul's answering thrill;
Yet 't was of simple utterance,
As gentle as a summer rill.
And older ears, too, drank the sound,
And loved the music of its strain,
As thirsty plants and thirsty ground
Hark to the drip of falling rain!
It was as dew to sturdy trees,
That wakes their half-unconscious powers,
The note of distant melodies,
That breaks the gloom of dreary hours.
The mightiest words that men can speak
May not be those that touch the heart,
May never pale the ruddy cheek,
Or cause the willing tear to start.
The fierce tornado's bitter blast
Or thunder's crash assail in vain;
The still small voice sweeps gently past,
And God, confest, is in the strain.
In childhood's simplest, tenderest word,
While warm love trembled in his tones,
And eyes were moist and hearts were stirred.
The quivering lip and eager glance
Bespoke the young soul's answering thrill;
Yet 't was of simple utterance,
As gentle as a summer rill.
And older ears, too, drank the sound,
And loved the music of its strain,
As thirsty plants and thirsty ground
Hark to the drip of falling rain!
It was as dew to sturdy trees,
That wakes their half-unconscious powers,
The note of distant melodies,
That breaks the gloom of dreary hours.
The mightiest words that men can speak
May not be those that touch the heart,
May never pale the ruddy cheek,
Or cause the willing tear to start.
The fierce tornado's bitter blast
Or thunder's crash assail in vain;
The still small voice sweeps gently past,
And God, confest, is in the strain.
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