Hymns and other poems for children :: :: University of Virginia Library

DAY HYMN.

When morn hath round our pillow shed
Her pure and precious light,
We must not idly keep our bed,
That gave us rest by night.
We must arise our God to praise,
Who kept us while we lay;
And ask his care through all the ways
He marks for us by day.

When, shining in his noontide power,
We see the golden sun,
We should review each by-gone hour
Of day, for what we've done.
We should aspire our hearts to lift
His glorious height above;
And from our Maker seek the gift
Of sun-like truth and love.

When falling shades and evening dew
The earth in silence veil,
We should to Him our prayer renew
Whose mercies never fail!
We must in God fold up our hearts
Ere slumber seal our eyes;
And trust—when sleep at morn departs,
In him to wake and rise.

STAR HYMN.

From its home so high and far,
There's a little twinkling star,
Down through evening shades and damp,
Beaming, like a diamond lamp!

Soft as angel ministry
Doth its lustre come to me;
While to God, who holds it there,
I address my soul in prayer.

Clouds may rise and intervene
Me and that dear star between;

While, unchanged, the star will be
True to heaven, and true to me.

Sinful thoughts may thus arise
In my soul, and o'er my eyes
Bring a vapor, that will hide
God's bright angel at my side!

May the penitential tear
Then my clouded vision clear,
And my drooping spirit feel
Christ apply the pardon-seal!

Now that peaceful star on high,
Like an angel watcher's eye,
Do I love to know will keep
Beaming o'er me while I sleep.

LITTLE FRIENDS OF JESUS.

Young children sang “Hosanna!”
Where Jesus drew the throng;
The palm-branch was their banner,
And angels taught their song.

Those little prompt believers
In Christ, their Lord and King,
Were of the first receivers
Of joy he came to bring.

And their sweet infant story,
That now so fresh appears,
Has given their Savior glory
These eighteen hundred years.
Whilst they the palm-branch bearing,
When Christ on earth was found,
Bright crowns in Heaven are wearing,
And sing his throne around.

Though there his brightness falleth
On saint and seraphim,
On earth he sweetly calleth
The little ones to him.
He loves the hearts of childhood
Made his by faith and prayer;
As we, from heath and wild wood
Love flowers for our parterre.

Each gift—each word that's spoken
To spread his kingdom here,

He treasures as a token
Of love to him sincere.
And, little sons and daughters
Of happy Christian land,
Know ye, beyond the waters,
What heathen idols stand?

There heathen children never
The name of Jesus heard!
They have no hope forever,
Unless they learn his word.
If yours be love's confidings
In him, his love proclaim:
Send out the glorious tidings
Of life in Jesus' name.

'Twill, as your signal palmy,
Be witnessed from on high,
And yield an unction balmy
To souls that else would die.
O, send the heavenly manna,
The “bread of life” to them,
That they may sing “Hosanna”
In New Jerusalem.

THE GOLDEN MINSTREL.

Where, from thousand honey-springs,
Opening blossoms feed the bee,
Some melodious warbler sings,
Bosomed deep in yonder tree.

On the breeze the music floats
With the perfume of the flower,
Pouring forth in mellow notes
From the lovely minstrel's bower.

'Mid the leaves and clustered bloom,
Where to shroud his dress he stole,
Now appears his golden plume;
'Tis a brilliant Oriole.

Little jewel! hidden there,
Still he had remained concealed,
Had not that mellifluous air
Thus his covert form revealed.

Not to win himself a name
Would he so his powers display;
Nor to swell a creature's fame;
'Tis to God he pours the lay.

Oft it seems as if the birds
Came with lessons sweet to man;
That to pure, unwritten words
Their delicious music ran.

Ever seem they to rejoice,
In the sunshine, or the showers;
Gratitude attunes their voice
Unto Him who gave their powers.

Under blue or sombre sky,
On the bough or in the dust,
They've a bright and cheerful eye,
And a heart of truth and trust.

In his leafy, calm retreat,
Like a happy human soul
Singing at its Father's feet,
Is the lovely Oriole.

Sweet as incense up the skies,
Welcome to his Maker's ear,
Roll the artless melodies
From the little warbler here.

THE LAD WITH THE LOAVES AND FISHES.

“There is a lad here, which hath five barley loaves and two small fishes.”—
St. John, VI: 9

When by Christ the throng were led
Up the lonely mountain's side,
Where the multitude were fed,
Who the wondrous food supplied?

Those five loaves and fishes two,
Which for thousands were to do—
Who the loaves and fishes brought
Whence the miracle was wrought?

Wife, nor maid, nor mother then
Might the rural feast prepare;
Not the young, nor white-haired men
Should provide the timely fare.
But a little Christian boy
For the work did Christ employ,
Pleased, his host of friends among,
To distinguish one so young.

Still doth Jesus love to count
Young disciples, fair and true,
Like the lad upon the mount
Where his early friends he drew.
Every little gift or deed
He can bless, like planted seed,
Or the barley-loaves of old,
To increase a thousand fold.

Though your gift be but a mite
Spared to send his word afar,

It may prove a ray of light
Spread and brightened to a star!
This the star of morn may be
O'er some land beyond the sea,
Opening up the shining way
Of the peaceful gospel day.

Little friends of Jesus, aim,
While your life is in the flower,
With his spirit, in his name,
To commend his love and power.
Emulate the Hebrew lad,
Who, imparting what he had,
Saw the wonders Christ could do,
And the moral left to you

EMMA'S DREAM.

My little contribution,
With ready heart and hand,
I gave, to send the Word of God
To distant heathen land:
And ere I went to rest that night,
I kneeled to God in prayer,
That he would change my gift to light
For souls in darkness there.

When I was lost in slumber,
There seemed just o'er my bed,
An angel child, with beaming brow
And shining wings out-spread;
And stainless seemed the robe to flow
About that lovely one,

As lies a glowing sheet of snow
Beneath the morning sun.

A touch of golden glory
Was on her wavy hair;
Her face, with rose-tint on the cheek,
Was like the lily fair.
And oh! she sang a holy song,
Which angels only know
To sound in their adoring throng;
And never learnt below!

She told a hasty story
About her life on earth,
When here a little dark Hindoo,
Of distant Indian birth;
That once her parents were of those
Who God in Ganges deem,
Where oft her babe the mother throws,
An offering, on the stream:

But when the missions taught them
To read the WORD, and pray
To God in Heaven, through Jesus' name,
Their gods were cast away;

That e'er she died, she loved to sing
How Christ for her could die:
And then he gave her spirit wing
To soar to him on high.

I drew my breath, to ask her
About the joys above;
When silently she disappeared,
With parting smile of love!
Awaking then, I prayed for more
That I might send away
To shed upon some heathen shore
The beams of gospel day.

THE LITTLE CAKE; A SCRIPTURE STORY.

When o'er ancient Israel,
Ahab reigned, with Jezebel,
Fearful things the land befell,
From their pagan sway:
Prophets of the Lord were slain;
Altars reared to idols vain;

Sins were known, to earth a stain
Never washed away.

Ahab's bold Zidonian wife
Still pursued the vengeful strife,
Thirsting for Elijah's life,
Whom the Lord had sent,
On the land denouncing woe
Which the king and queen would show,
For the blood they'd caused to flow,
What his threatenings meant.

But the way the Prophet took,
Shown of God, to Cherith brook,
Where, in secret cave or nook,
He pursuit would shun.
Ravens, as the Lord had said,
Daily then, with meat and bread,
Night and morning came and fed
There, the lonely one.

Ministers of God were they,
Wafting on their airy way
Food his servant's life to stay
In his drear retreat;

Till, as he had prophesied,
Dew and rain to earth denied
Seared the grass, the streamlets dried,
As by torrid heat.

He who once a world could drown,
Now upon his foes sent down
Drought and famine, in his frown,
Through the kingdom spread.
Flock and herd, for drink and feed,
Pined and died on hill and mead;
Man, too, fell, for broke indeed
Was his staff of bread.

From his covert sad and low,
God then bade Elijah go,
On a way that he would show,
And protect his path.
Rough the road he traveled o'er,
Till a gate he stood before
Near a widow's humble door,
Down in Zarephath.

She was out, and looking round,
Picking fuel from the ground,

When she heard the startling sound
Of the stranger's feet.
“Give me drink,” Elijah said,
“And a morsel of your bread;
Ere my fainting life hath fled,
Let me drink and eat!”

“As the Lord doth live,” quoth she,
“For my famished son and me,
In our keen necessity,
Only left have I
Little oil, and meal to make
For us twain a little cake,
Which I gather sticks to bake,
That we eat, and die!”

Still the Prophet urged his plea,
“Water bring, and bread, to me;
Haste with these! and then for thee
And thy son provide.”
Quick the cup his thirst to slake
Then she brought; she sped to bake;
And the ready little cake
Soon his want supplied.

From that hour her care had ceased;
She, from want and fear released,
Saw her meal and oil increased;
Ever full, her store.
God, who saw her feeling heart,
Trustful, void of self and art,
Prompt her morsel to impart,
Blessed her evermore.

Holy men, on heathen ground,
Now the Gospel trump would sound
More, could means of life be found
For their distant way.
But the needful little cake—
Who for this the price will take
From his store, for Jesus' sake,
Trusting God for pay?

THE DYING CHILD'S REQUEST.

A little boy, laid sick and low,
Looked up with languid eye,
And spake as one who seemed to know
He now was called to die.

He said, “Dear mother, do not grieve
That I must leave you here;
For you, and every friend I leave,
Will then be doubly dear.

“There's something tells me I must go
Where Christ prepares a home,
To which you all, left now below,
In little while shall come.

“To brother—sister—playmates too,
Some gift I'd leave behind,
To keep me, when I've passed from view,
Still present to their mind.

“You'll thus to them my books divide,
My playthings give away;
So they'll remember how I died,
When not so old as they.

“Then from my money-box you'll take
The little coins within,
To use as means, for Jesus' sake,
In turning souls from sin.

“'Twould make the heavenly hosts rejoice,
And sing to Jesus' name,

To hear some little heathen's voice
His saving love proclaim.

“My breath is faint—I'm dark and chill;
Soft wings seem hovering nigh:
Come, all, and promise me, you still
Will love me, if I die.

“Oh, mother! tell me—what is this?
Your forms I cannot see!
Come, each, and warm me with a kiss;
The angels bend for me!”

The morning sun shone in, to light
The chamber where he lay;
The soul that made that form so bright,
To Heaven had passed away.

THE HILL-SIDE FLOWER.

Flower upon the green hill-side,
Thou, to shun the threatening blast,
In the grass thy head dost hide,
By the tempest overpast.

Then to greet the azure skies,
And to feel the soothing sun,
Brighter—sweeter—dost thou rise!
Tell me, flower, how this is done!

“I will tell thee, as a friend,
Artless—timid—whispering low;
At the blast 'tis good to bend!
He who made me, taught me so.

“While his teaching I obey,
I but fall to rise, and stand,
Brighter for the stormy day,
Leaning on his viewless hand.

“When to him I've lowly bowed,
He with freshness fills my cup
From the angry, scowling cloud;
Gently then he lifts me up.

“So I sink,—and so I rise—
In the dark or sunny hour,
Minding him who rules the skies:—
He's my God; and I'm his flower!'

JUVENILE MISSIONARY HYMN.

[_]

[Written for a sewing-circle of little girls, preparing articles for an annual sale; the proceeds of which were for the support of two African children.]

“Come over here and help us!”
That Macedonian cry,
From dusky Afric do we hear;
Nor can our aid deny.
We'll send our angel, Charity,
Beyond the deep to sow:
As mustard seed our gift may be,
A thriving tree to grow.

Its green and spreading branches
May flourish, high and fair,
Till comes the bird of Paradise
To plume her bosom there.
The little Ethiop's mind, beneath
Its shadow fresh and free,
The wreath may twine—the balm may breathe
Of Immortality!

Though on the distant waters—
That others may be fed,—

Of Niger, Nile, or Senegal,
In faith we cast our bread;
As rivers from their sources flow,
Increasing as they roll,
'Twill spring and spread with power, and grow,
To stay the famished soul!

Whilst here we ply the needle,
That heathen lands may win
The seamless garment Christ hath wrought,
To clothe the spirit in;
Whoe'er but gives a widow's mite,
Or breathes a Christian prayer,
Will speed our happy angel's flight
To waft our offering there.

THE CHILD AND THE HONEY BEE.

Come here, little bee!
There are sweet flowers by me;

Come, and just let me see
How your honey is made.
“Oh! I can't; for I fear
That, for coming too near
I should pay very dear;
I'm afraid! I'm afraid!”

O, feel no alarm!
Not a wing nor an arm—
Not a part will I harm,
While you're sipping your fill.
“Pretty maid, then I'll come
Close beside you, and hum;
And you shall have some
Of the sweets I distil.”

My trust then is free,
Just as yours is to me;
But, be sure, little bee,
Not to give me your sting!
“Oh, no, no! since I flew
From the cell where I grew,
None has known me to do
So ungrateful a thing!”

Then, why thus supplied
With a sting, but to hide
And to keep never tried,
Out of sight? cunning bee!
“He who gave me the sting,
And the swift gauzy wing,
Bids me not harm a thing
That would not injure me.”

THE MEADOW VIOLET.

Violet, violet, sparkling with dew!
Down in the meadow-land wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
In which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender young head,
When rude sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
Or dark, gloomy clouds, ranging over you, shed
Their waters, all heavy and cold?

For no one has nursed you or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
But art cannot yield me so lovely a flower
As here I have found at my feet!
O, speak, my sweet violet! answer, and tell
How thus you've grown up, and flourished so well,
And live so contented, where lowly you dwell,
And we now by accident meet!

“The same careful hand,” the meek violet said,
“That holds up the firmament, holds up my head!
And He who with azure the skies overspread,
Has painted the violet blue.
He sprinkles the stars out, above me by night;
And sends down the sunbeams at morning, with light
To make my new coronet sparkling and bright,
When formed of a drop of his dew.

“And I've naught to fear from the dark heavy cloud,
Or breath of the tempest, that comes strong and loud,
Where, born in the lowland, remote from the crowd,
I know and I live but for ONE.
He soon forms a mantle about me to cast,
Of long silken grass, till the rain and the blast,
And all that seemed threatening have harmlessly past,
And clouds scud before the warm sun!”

THE ROSE TREE.

Rose-tree, O my beauteous rose-tree!
Often have I longed to know
How thy tender leaves were moulded—
How thy buds are burst, and blow.

I have watered, sunned, and trained thee,
And have watched thee many an hour;

Yet I never could discover
How a bud becomes a flower.

So, last night, I thought about thee
On my pillow, till at last
I was gone in quiet slumber,
And a dream before me passed.

In it, I beheld my rose-tree
Stripped of flower, and bud and leaf,
While thy naked stalk and branches
Filled me with surprise and grief.

Then, methought, I wept to see thee
Spoiled of all that made thee dear,
Till a band of smiling angels
Mildly shining, hovered near.

Gently as they gathered round thee
All in silence, one of them
Laid his fair, soft fingers on thee,
Pulling leaves from out the stem.

One by one thy twigs he furnished
With a dress of foliage green;

While another angel followed,
Bringing buds the leaves between.

Then came one the buds to open;—
He their silken rolls unsheathed,
Whilst the one who tints the roses
Through their opening foldings breathed.

Then the angel of the odors
Filled each golden-bottomed cell,
Till, between the parting petals,
Free on air the fragrance fell.

Lifting then their shining pinions,
Quick the angels passed from sight,
Leaving, where aloft they vanished,
But a stream of fading light.

There I heard sweet strains of music,
And their voices far above,
Dying in the azure distance,
Naming thee a Gift of Love!

And my rose-tree stood before me,
Finished thus by angel hands;—

Perfect in its bloom and fragrance—
Beautiful, as now it stands!

Hence, whenever I behold thee,
I shall think of angels too;
And the countless works of goodness
They descend on earth to do.

All unseen and silent, round us,
Careful they their watches keep,
Whether we may wake, or slumber;
Guardian angels never sleep!

CHILDREN PRAYING.

Little children, when you pray,
“Father, hallowed be thy name!”
Do you think, the words you say
From the lips of Jesus came?
Uttered not with soul sincere,
They offend his holy ear;
But, if from the heart they rise,
They're as incense to the skies.

When you pray, “Thy kingdom come!”
Would you have it every where?
If you do but think of home,
'Tis a vain and empty prayer.
When you ask “Thy will be done;”
Every where beneath the sun!
Should a voice within you say,
Or your lips be mute, that pray.

When you ask for “daily bread,”
And your “trespasses” forgiven,
Would you have all people fed;
Every soul made heir of heaven?
Then, you'll strive his name to spread,
Who of life can give the bread;
Only through whose love can be
Souls from sin, for Heaven made free.

Would you all “temptation” shun,
And “from evil” find release,
Trust to God's beloved son;
For in him is perfect peace.
What you do his cause to aid,
Will your treasure sure be made,
Where in brightness it shall last
When this earth itself is past!

THE SPIDER.

One biting winter morning,
A dusky spider swung
From off the mantle, by his thread,
And o'er the stove-pipe hung.
Escaped from some dim cranny cold,
To warmer quarters there,
He seemed, upon that slender hold,
An atom hung on air.

I watched his quick manœuvres
Above the funnel hot,
Where like a falling mustard seed
He looked, but touched it not.
For when he'd spun his line too long,
His tiny hands and feet
He plied to shun the fervor strong,
And made a slight retreat.

Then down again he'd venture,
A rash, unwary thing!
And to his tenure frail, above
The burning iron, cling.
He'd mimic now, the sailor's art
To dangle on the rope,

And then, the clinging human heart
On some delusive hope.

Methought, “Poor, simple spider!
A cruel death is near;
Thou art upon its very lip,
And yet so void of fear!
The spider folk, I here confess,
Had never charms for me;
They weave their tents, like wickedness,
For deeds of cruelty.

“They live by snare and slaughter;
And oft the piercing cry
I've heard from some poor victim bound,
By them slung up to die;
The while, for many a venomed bite,
Would spider at him run,
And back, as if with fell delight,
To pain the dying one.

“And yet, I'll try to save thee;—
For once a spider's friend!”
I raised my hand, when lo! he fell,
As lightning, to his end!

The wicked flee when none pursue.
In jealousy and dread,
Not knowing what I aimed to do,
To death the spider fled.

His little life was over;
And where so quick he fell,
Upon the fervid iron lay
No speck, his fate to tell.
Though short its space, for good or ill,
We thence, perhaps, may find
Some little moral to distil,
For use of human kind.

Is not unwary childhood,
For pleasure, ofttimes prone
To shun the way experience points,
And bent to take its own?
Does not the wicked, from his breast,
Spin out the line of sin
That leads him to the grave unblest,
And drops him, hopeless, in?

THE DEWY FLOWER.

The dewy flower that morn unfolds,
With pure and grateful eye,
Its native earth around beholds,
Above, the shining sky.

Its pearly crown—a tribute meet—
To dust beneath it gives;
And from its heart the odors sweet,
To Him by whom it lives.

Its spicy breath ascends on air,
Like childhood's hymn of praise;
Or seeks its Maker, like the prayer,
Some infant heart may raise.

Adoring God, delighting man,
It seems with aim sincere
To serve as far as floweret can
Its being's purpose here.

Would children emulate the flowers—
With hearts to God as true,
Would they to him devote their powers,
What good each child might do!

For God beholds our humblest aim
To serve his righteous laws;
To glorify the Savior's name,
His kingdom and his cause.

Where mind is but a wilderness,
With souls in heathen night,
Our feeblest efforts he will bless
To shed the Gospel light.

Some little self-denying deed,
For heathen land, may shine,
A kindling star; or like a seed,
Spring up a fruitful vine.

An owner may come out, and pluck
His flower, at opening day;
Or canker at its vitals suck
Its new-found life away.

And childhood is the morning hour
Of life's just opening bloom,
When death may snap the dewy flower,
And lay it in the tomb.

But if at life's bright rising sun
The heart to God be given,
Though plucked from earth a budded one,
The soul unfolds in Heaven.

MARY.

Mary, precious is thy name
More than any other
Borne by mortal; for it came
From our Savior's mother!
Mary pillowed on her breast
Jesus, once, in infant rest:
Now her name, in sacred lines
Traced by inspiration, shines.

Then, another Mary sought
Her beloved Master,
Where he “sat at meat;” and brought,
Sealed in alabaster,
Costly ointment for his head;
Brake the box, and o'er him shed
Precious odors, like a cloud
Rising, while to him she bowed.

Still on earth she ever lives,
Young in sacred story;
Whilst on high to Christ she gives
Endless praise and glory.
Here she “sat at Jesus' feet,”
Listening to his precepts sweet;

Now she stands with hosts above,
Singing his redeeming love.

Near the cross, when Jesus bled,
Stood the Marys, weeping;
Earliest to his tomb they sped,
Where they thought him sleeping.
When he left his couch of stone,
He to Mary first was shown;
“Mary” was the primal word
From the risen Savior heard.

While arose that Sabbath sun
Robed in new-made splendor,
Mary was his chosen one,
First account to render—
First his sorrowing friends to tell
Of the Light of Israel
Showing Death's domain destroyed,
And the grave a final void!

Mary mine, so young and fair,
Full of warm affection,

Hence from sin and worldly snare
Wouldst thou sure protection?
Guard the beauty of thy name
By their graces whence it came:
Early taught of Jesus be,
Like the maid of Bethany.

Choose, like her, “that better part;”
Let thine action show it!
If to Christ we give our heart,
Earth, like Heaven, must know it.
He hath many lovely ways,
Through the child, to perfect praise:
Thou, at least, canst speak and pray
For the heathens far away.

He will bless thy feeblest aim—
Like that other Mary—
Life to publish in his name,
Though the means may vary.
Little self-denials, made
Offerings at his altar laid,
On some heathen isle or shore,
May reward thee evermore.

THE BIRD'S HYMN.

My Maker, I know not the place of thy home,
If 'tis earth, or the sky, or the sea;

I only can tell that wherever I roam,
I've still a kind Father in thee.

I feel that at night when I go to my rest,
Thy wings all around me are flung;
And peaceful I sleep, while the down of thy breast
Is o'er me, as mine o'er my young.

And when in the morning I open my eye,
I feel thou hast long been awake;
Thy beautiful plumage is spread o'er the sky,
And painted on river and lake.

Thy breath has gone into the buds, and the flowers
Have opened to thee on their stems;
And thou hast strown dew-drops on meadows and bowers,
To glitter like thousands of gems.

Thy voice, in the notes that can only be thine,—
A music 'tis gladness to hear—

Comes through the green boughs of the oak and the pine,
And falls sweet and soft on my ear.

And oft as a shield hast thou stood between me
And the arrow that aimed at my heart;
For, though in a form that my eye could not see,
I know thou hast parried the dart.

I drink from the drops on the grass and the vine,
And gratefully gather my food:
I feel thou hast plenty for me and for mine;
That all things declare thou art good.

My Father, thy pinions are ever unfurled,
With brightness no changes can dim!
My Maker, thy home is all over the world;
Thou 'lt hear, then, thy bird's lowly hymn.

THE LITTLE MAID OF ISRAEL.

A SCRIPTURE STORY.

Ye joyous little maidens
Of happy Christian land,

Who have the Bible, and are taught
To read and understand,
A lovely tale those Scriptures tell
Of one we only know
As little maid of Israel,
She lived so long ago.

For she, so young and nameless,
A glorious work achieved!
'Twas through her faith, the Syrian lord
In Israel's God believed.
While she 'mid Syria's idols strove
To make Jehovah known,
He marked for her a crown above,
And sealed her here his own.

To Syria borne a captive,
In Naaman's house a slave,
A missionary sweet she proved,
Her foreign lord to save.
That honored favorite of the king,
His chief in rank and power,
Felt on himself an evil cling,
Corroding every hour.

For Naaman was a leper,
Whilst all the power and skill
Of magic, art, and pagan rite
Had failed to reach the ill.
Though clothed in jeweled raiment bright
And golden-wrought array,
His form with leprosy was white,
To foul disease a prey.

'Twas then this little maiden,
While serving Naaman's wife,
Was made the means his soul to save,
And heal his blighted life.
For with that truly pious zeal
The faithful only know,
She sought his malady to heal,—
The healing balm to show.

She said, “Would God my master
Were in Samaria, where
There dwells a Prophet, who would find
The cleansing secret there!”
But little did the leper know
How fresh and free and pure

The balsam of the Lord would flow
His malady to cure.

And Naaman sought Elisha,
With gifts and rich array;
When from them all that man of God
With loathing turned away.
The gift of God he “did not buy,
Nor speak his will for hire!”
Then lightning flashed through Naaman's eye
From out his breast of ire.

The Syrian thought the Prophet
Would come with grand display;
And call upon his God with pomp,
And sacrifice to pay.
But when he merely bade him go,
And wash in Jordan's tide;
He deemed it mockery; spoken so,
His misery to deride!

“Hath not,” he said, “Damascus,
The city where I dwell,
The better waters, far, than all
The streams of Israel?

Abana, there, and Pharpar flow,
In shining fulness seen!
Have they not floods, where I may go
To wash me, and be clean?”

And had not Naaman's servants
Their master's wrath assuaged,
The leper thence had hastened home,
Despairing and enraged.
As yet the pagan never knew,
'Mid all his keen distress,
What one small act of faith may do,
With Israel's God to bless.

But by his sufferings humbled,
Not knowing where to lean,
He turned and washed him seven times
In Jordan, and was clean!
Renewed in faith, in person fair,
This witness thence he gave:
“No god in all the earth is there,
But Israel's God, to save!”

Yet of this lovely captive,
The maid of Israel,

And of the mission she performed,
My song can feebly tell.
You'll find the tale, and best derive
The lesson sweet it brings,
By studying it, in chapter five,
Of Second Book of Kings.

THE SORROWFUL YELLOW-BIRD.

They've caught my little brother;
And he was to me a twin!
They stole him from our mother;
And the cage has shut him in.

I flitted by and found him,
Where he looked so sad and sick,
With the gloomy wires around him,
As he crouched upon a stick.

And when I tried to cheer him
With the cherry in my bill,
To see me there so near him—
Oh! it made him sadder still.

His tender eye was shining
With the brightness of despair,
With sorrow and repining,
As he bade me have a care!

He said they'd come and take me,
As they'd taken him; and then
A hopeless prisoner make me,
In the fearful hands of men:—

That, once in their dominion,
I should have to pine away,
And never stretch a pinion,
To my very dying day:—

That the wings which God had made him
For freedom in the air,
Since man had thus betrayed him,
Were stiff and useless there.

And the little darling fellow,
As he showed his golden breast,
He said, beneath the yellow,
He'd a sad and aching breast:—

That since he'd been among them,
They had ruffled it so much,
The only song he'd sung them
Was a shriek beneath their touch.

How can they love to see him
So sickly and so sad,
When, if they would but free him,
He'd be so well and glad?

My hapless little brother!
I would fain his bondage share:
I never had another;—
And he's a captive there!

THE BOY AND THE FLOWERS.

Radiant with his spirit light,
Was the happy little child,
Sporting round a fountain bright,
Playing through the flowerets wild.
Where they grew he lightly stepped,
Cautious not a leaf to crush;
Then about the fount he leaped,
Shouting at its merry gush.

While the sparkling waters welled,
Laughing as they bubbled up,
In his lily hand he held,
Closely clasped, a silver cup.
Now he put it forth to fill;
Then he bore it to the flowers,
Through his fingers there to spill
What it held, in mimic showers.

“Open, pretty buds,” said he,
“Open to the air and sun;
So to-morrow I may see
What my rain to-day has done.
Yes, you will, you will, I know,
For the drink I give you now,

Burst your little cups, and blow,
When I'm gone, and can't tell how.

“Oh! I wish I could but see
How God's finger touches you,
When your sides unclasp, and free,
Let the spice and petals through.
I would watch you all the night;
Nor in darkness be afraid,
Only once to see aright
How a beauteous flower is made.

“Now remember, I shall come
In the morning, from my bed,
Here to find among you, some
With your brightest colors spread!”
To his buds he hastened out
At the dewy morning hour,
Crying with a joyous shout,
“God has made of each a flower!”

Precious must the ready faith
Of the little children be,
In the sight of Him who saith,
“Suffer them to come to me.”

Answered by the smile of Heaven
Is the infant's offering found,
Though “a cup of water given,”
Even to the thirsty ground!

THE GOOD DOLL.

Come, sister dear,
I'll read you here
The story of a Dollie,
Who never strayed
Nor disobeyed
Good rules, by guilt or folly.

She never cried,
When put aside,
In bed or in the cradle;
When taken up,
She broke no cup,
Nor dropped a spoon or ladle.

She never told
A fib, nor rolled
Her pretty lip in anger;
Nor, if displeased,
Felt cross, and teased,
Or filled the house with clangor.

She never soiled
Her dress, or spoiled

Her shoes, their worth abusing;
Nor did she tear
Her book, or wear
Through leaves she was perusing.

She did not pass
Before the glass
Too often, or too vainly;
As if her worth
Should be set forth
In outward beauty mainly.

The whole, in short,
Of Dollie's fort,
Was trust in those to train her
Who better knew
Than she could do,
Wherein she'd be a gainer.

A brother young
Was found among
Miss Dollie's near relations,
Who could, like her,
Some good infer
From slightest intimations.

But both were small;
So this is all
Their story gives at present:
It lets us see,
How each could be
In aspect always pleasant.

THE ROBIN'S SONG.

Hark! it is the robin's song
Coming through the flowery trees!
Sweetly does it float along
Hither, on the balmy breeze.

O, that I could understand
Once, the meaning of the words
Warbled forth so quick, to go
To the music of the birds!

If I had him in my hand,
Holding down his glossy wings,
Could I better understand
What it is the robin sings?

Were his tender downy breast
Pressing, warm, upon my palm,
Could I make it feel at rest?
Would he then be tame and calm?

No,—upon his native bough
He is happy, light and free.
There, to Heaven he carols now
Praises for his liberty!

Captive, he would only make
Signs of anguish—sounds of grief,
Till his little heart would break,
Mourning—panting—for relief.

He who formed the feathered lyre,
Hath the light, unfettered wings
Made to fan the latent fire
Kindled in the hidden strings.

Whilst he holds it high in air,
To his touch it quick replies;
But if mortal fingers bear
On its chords, the music dies!

THE CHILD AND THE FIRE-FLY.

Come here, pretty fly,
For the grass is so damp
And the wind is so high,
They will put out your lamp.

Come, don't be so coy,
Flashing by me with fear;
There's naught to destroy,
Or to injure you here.

Like a bright little spark
As you're flying about,
Here and there, in the dark,
O, you will get put out!

Then come, pretty fly,
Here's a shelter for you:
Not a blast shall come nigh,
Nor a drop of the dew.

Secure shall you stand,
Little jewel, and shed
Your light in my hand,
When your winglets are spread;

Or rest here by me,
In the pure crystal cup;
If you'll just let me see
How your winglets go up.

“Many thanks for your care,”
Said the wise little fly;
“But without dew and air,
I should soon faint and die.

“More charms do I find
In a fresh blade of grass,
Than appears, to my mind,
In a whole house of glass!

“My lamp is not made
Of the poor, wasting oil,
With burning to fade,
Or for dampness to spoil.

“By a hand that's unseen
It is fashioned and trimmed;
And this is the screen
That shall keep it undimmed.

“Secure in that hand,
I can live at my ease,
And glow while I'm fanned
By the blast and the breeze.

“I love to be free,
And to feel the whole world
Is open to me
When my wings are unfurled.

“From a sweet verdant sod
Am I raised up at night,
When the brightness of God
Lends the Fire-fly her light!”

113

WRITING IN HELEN'S ALBUM, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Now, Helen dear, I hear thee say,
That thou art six years old to-day!
So I will set my record here
Of thy beginning seventh year,
That thou in after days may'st find
The trace which this has left behind.

114

This morning we together strayed
'Mid fern, and brake, and forest-shade;
And, with thy little hand in mine,
We passed the rustling oak and pine,
Where last year's acorn-cup and cone
Among its withered leaves were strown.

The nimble squirrel, climbing high,
Looked down on us with curious eye;
While birds amid the branches sung
Till through the woods their music rung;
And in the boughs the spicy breeze
Made leafy air-harps of the trees.

Round, scarlet berries, ripe and sweet,
Peeped out like gems beside our feet;
The modest harebell bowed beneath
The sweetbrier tall, her balm to breathe;
And many a little floweret wild
Grew low, but looked to heaven and smiled.

We ventured down the mossy steep,
That edged the waters clear and deep,

115

Where blooming laurels grew beside
The Merrimack's broad silver tide;
And all was beauteous, fresh, and fair,
In nature's glory shining there.

And may thy future days be bright—
Thy heart be ever pure and light,
As when, a little gladsome child,
I led thee through the flowery wild;
And by thy prattling tongue was told,
That thou to-day wast six years old!

In other days, when thou may'st see
My face no more, remember me—
Remember, that I asked to-day
Heaven's smile upon thy future way—
That 'twas thy parent's early friend,
And thine, who this memento penned.

LADY MARY.

Lady Mary was able
To keep a good table;

116

And what was still better, none found her
Without a good heart
The good things to impart,
Which Providence showered around her.

She was prudent, 'tis true;
But was generous, too,
When charity called for her money;
And she ever kept by,
Her own board to supply,
Fresh biscuits, sweet butter and honey;

And twenty things more
That we'll not number o'er,
But such as gave comfort to many
So old, lone and poor,
That at home she felt sure,
They had very little, if any.

Then, oft as there came
To her house some old dame,
So feeble she scarce could walk steady,
Lady Mary would say,
“Take your cloak off and stay,
And early my tea shall be ready.”

117

So pleasant her smile
And her manners the while—
So kind was the welcome she gave her,
Her modest old guest
Would be put quite at rest,
And stay as if granting a favor.

She 'd laugh, then, and chat,
About this thing and that,
And seek to amuse her meek hearer,
As social and free,
While she poured out the tea,
As if some great duchess were near her.

When the moment was come
For her guest to go home,
That she might neither want, beg, nor borrow,
She 'd press her to take
A nice tart and a cake,
Or something else, good for the morrow.

She sometimes would go
Soothing words to bestow,
With gifts and kind looks, where were lying

118

The sick, pale, and faint;
And she 'd kneel, like a saint,
In prayer by the bed of the dying.

Her wish was, to see
All as happy as she:
And she knew her kind deeds so to vary,
That the sad, rich and poor,
Said, in heaven, they were sure,
Was a place for the good lady Mary.

123

LITTLE ELLEN, AND HER BROKEN BASKET.

As Ellen—now Ellen's a sweet little girl,
An infantine, innocent creature;
With cheeks like the rose-petal, teeth like the pearl,
And lovely in every feature;—

As Ellen one day, all equipped for a walk,
Went forth with the nurse, from her mother;
And looked like a bud that was broke from its stalk,
And lodged, in its fall, on another.

She had not gone far, when she spied on the green,
A bird, that she thought had just lighted;
The largest and tamest she ever had seen,
Which seemed neither jealous nor frighted.

124

And so, from the hand of the nurse getting free,
She bounded off nearer, to watch it.
“O see what a beautiful creature!” said she,
“I guess little Ellen can catch it.”

Then, running, she stepped on her frock-hem, and fell,
Or, as sometimes we say, made a blunder:
The bird raised its wings, with a hideous yell,
Which capping the fall, nearly stunned her.

And Ellen, intent upon catching the bird,
Which she did not yet know by its feather,
Came down on her neat little basket, and heard
Its sides crushed, like egg-shells, together!

The name of the bird may not here be of use,
Yet some little querist may ask it;
I therefore will tell you,—'twas chasing a Goose,
That spoiled Ellen's beautiful basket!

125

TO ADELAIDE,

WHO GAVE ME THE CAPE-JASMINE.

[_]

[Written in her Album.]

A Jasmine opening, sweet and fair,
Was late thy gift to me;
And naught have I, that can compare
With this, to offer thee.

But from my poet-spirit's bower,
Whose paths not foot can trace,
I bring this little dewy flower
Among thy leaves to place.

And when these earth-born flowers depart,
As spring and summer fly,
A keepsake, hold it in thy heart,
So it may never die.

Its petals are perfumed with prayer,
That God may bless thy ways,
And give his holy angels care
O'er all thy mortal days.

For life with thee is in its spring;
Its landscape fresh and bright;

126

While Hope is on her morning wing,
Nor thinks of coming night!

The things of time would fain possess
Thy soul beyond release;
But Wisdom's ways are pleasantness;
And all her paths are peace!

If now thy heart in youthful glow
Devote to God its love,
Through shade, and storm, and frost below,
Thy Star will shine above!

132

THE CHILD'S HYMN TO SPRING.

Thou lovely and glorious Spring,
Descending to us from the sky,
I praise thee for coming to bring
Such beautiful things to my eye!

For, bearing thine arms full of flowers
To strew o'er the earth, hast thou come,
Adorning this low world of ours
With brightness like that of thy home.

And thou hast brought back the gay birds,
Their songs full of gladness to sing—
To give, in their musical words,
Their sweet little anthems to Spring!

The roots thou hast watered and fed;
The leaves thou hast opened anew;
The violet lifts its meek head,
And seems as 'twere praising thee, too.

The hills thou hast made to rejoice,
And all their young buds to unfold;
The cowslips spring up at thy voice,
And dot the green meadows with gold.

133

The brooks o'er the pebbles that run
Are sounding thy praise as they go;
The grass points its blades to the sun,
And thanks thee for making them grow.

The rush and the delicate reed
Are waving in honor of thee,—
The lambkins are learning to feed—
The honey-cup 's filled for the bee.

The butterfly 's out on the wing—
The spices are out on the breeze;
And sweet is the breathing of Spring
That comes thro' the blossoming trees!

The forest, the grove and the vine
In festival vestures are clad,
To show that a presence like thine
Is making them grateful and glad.

The earth and the waters are bright—
The skies are all beaming and mild;
And oh! with unmingled delight
Thy charms fill the heart of the child!

134

Sweet Spring! 'twas my Maker made thee,
And sent thee to brighten our days!
Thine aim is his glory, I see:—
I'll join thee in giving him praise.

My heart seems to sing like the birds;—
Like blossoms to open with love,
Which God will, as music and words,
Receive for my anthem above.

149

THE WHITE COTTAGE.

Come here, my dear Loui, and laugh at thy fear;
The bee has not hurt thee; so brush off the tear,
And silence the sob, while I tell thee a tale
About the white cottage that stood in the vale.

Around that low dwelling sweet eglantine grew,—
Bright golden-rod, cowslip, and violets blue;
The raspberry-bloom, and a thousand wild flowers
Were scattered, or clustered, or twined into bowers.

The rich honeysuckle climbed up to its eaves;
And near it the balm spread its high-odored leaves;
Green trees stood around, the wing'd warblers to house,
And robins and yellow-birds built in their boughs.

150

And there the bird caroled at eve and at morn;
And brought little haws they had plucked from the thorn,
Or wild seeds and insects they'd gathered for food,
To drop in the wide-open beaks of their brood.

Behind the neat cot stood a snug little hive,
Which, had you peeped in, would have looked all alive,
At twilight, with bees in a swarm on the comb,
Retired for the night, at their cellular home.

But soon as the day dawned, the bees issued out,
To fly to the new-opened flowers all about,
Where, making their bread and their honey, they thought
Of winter, when none could be made, or be bought.

151

Then, back to the hive with their treasures they went,
Where all brought together with love and content,
The fruits of their labor, in one common store
To save for the future; and hied off for more.

While thus they were roving on air through the day,
And scattered so widely, still each knew the way
That led to their dear distant home, where at night,
They all met together in peace and delight.

At peace with mankind, and content with their lot,
A family dwelt in that snug little cot,
While known free from envy, and ever to thrive,
As busy and happy as bees of their hive.

152

And forth from the cottage two fair little girls
Would run, while the fresh morning breeze tossed their curls,
With joy in the eye, and a smile on the lip,
To see the glad bees at the honey-cups sip.

Said one to the other, “How charming to see
The flowers yield their honey to breakfast the bee,
And still in their colors and fragrance remain
As perfect as ever, and free from a stain.”

“And then,” said her sister, the brisk little bees
That range through the bloom of the plants and the trees,
And mind their own business, in constant employ,
Appear every moment of life to enjoy.

“They like not that others should come, it is true,
To meddle with them, or the course they pursue;

153

And none ever learns they 've a sting, by its touch,
But those who have troubled or vexed them too much.”

The children, those sweet little sisters, were seen,
At morn, where the bee fed, at eve, on the green
The fireflies were lighting with gem after gem,
To bloom like twin flowers of the vale on their stem.

157

THE YOUNG BENEFACTOR.

Overshadowed by the willow,
Near a rippling, silver stream,
Alvah has a grassy pillow:
Sweet his slumber, bright his dream!

Well may he in peace surrender
To the balmy power of sleep!
O'er a heart so warm and tender,
Angel eyes their vigils keep.

He beheld a faint wayfarer,
Old and feeble, poor and lone;

158

Who appeared to have no sharer
In the woes himself must own.

Sitting on the bank that edges
Brightly this meandering brook
With a fringe of flowers and sedges
He 'd a needy, suffering look.

Alvah viewed him, filled with pity;
And resolved to lend him aid;
Though from home in yonder city,
Far for wild-flowers he had strayed.

Quick he thought, his little treasure,
Given to him, and laid aside—
His bright coins to purchase pleasure—
Now might wisely be applied.

Home he ran, to seek and take them,
Out of breath, with moistened brow;
Thinking he could never make them
Surer means of good than now.

Swift upon his way returning,
Over fen and field he ran,

159

Till, with feet and forehead burning,
He rejoined the poor old man.

Here, his little gift bestowing,
While a joy is in his breast
Worthy of an angel's knowing,
On the turf he sinks to rest.

Joy, too long a stranger seeming
In the wanderer's hollow eye,
Speaks his thanks, through tear-drops beaming,
While his words in utterance die.

There he sits, beside the sleeper,
Asking God's peculiar care—
Blessings, and a Heavenly keeper,
For a child so good and fair.

Angel guards may—thus assuming
Forms of humble souls below—
Shroud their own, too bright and blooming
To a mortal eye to show.

160

Oft does He, “the King of Glory”—
Once “the Man of Sorrows”—thus,
In the poor repeat his story,
And the tale of Lazarus.

Now, with pleasure pure and holy,
He regards this peaceful child,
Pillowed on a bed so lowly—
Slumbering 'mid the flowerets wild.