Plain Text (continued 2)

There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover, There’s no rain left in heaven; I’ve said my “seven times” over and over— Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old I can write a letter; My birthday-lessons are done. The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one time’s one. O moon in the night, I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright, ah, bright! but your light is failing, You are nothing now but a bow. You moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven And shine again in your place. O velvet bee! you’re a dusty fellow, You’ve powdered your legs with gold! O brave marshmary-buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold. O columbine! open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell; O cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear, green bell. And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old; you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day. —Jean Ingelow.

Dear John, the sun is setting now, Behold him in the west; And all the children now must soon Lie down and go to rest. In other countries far away The day begins to break; And many a child and many a bird Will soon be wide awake.

The moon is very fair and bright, And seems so very high; I think it is a pretty sight To see it in the sky: It shone upon me as I lay Until ’twas almost bright as day. The stars are very pretty, too, And scattered all about; At first there seems a very few, But soon the rest come out: I’m sure I could not count them all, They are so very bright and small. The sun is brighter still than they, He blazes in the skies; I dare not turn my face that way, Unless I shut my eyes: Yet when he shines our hearts revive, And all the trees rejoice and thrive. God made and keeps them every one By his great power and might; He is more glorious than the sun And all the stars of light: Yet, though so great, we, by his grace, If pure in heart, shall see his face.

“See, the stars are coming In the far blue skies: Mother, look, they brighten; Are they angels’ eyes?” “No, my child, the luster 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.”

Twinkle, twinkle, little star; How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the glorious sun is set, When the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep; For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Who am I that shine so bright, With my pretty yellow light Peeping through your curtains gray? Tell me, little girl, I pray. When the sun is gone, I rise In the clear and silent skies; And a cloud or two doth skim Round about my silver rim. All the little stars do seem Hidden by my brighter beam; And among them I do ride Like a queen in all her pride. Then the reaper goes along Singing forth a merry song, While I light the shaking leaves And the yellow harvest sheaves.

God made the sky that looks so blue; He made the grass so green; He made the flowers that smell so sweet, In pretty colors seen. God made the sun that shines so bright And gladdens all I see; It comes to give us heat and light: How thankful should we be!

Back of the loaf is the snowy flour, And back of the flour is the mill; And back of the mill is the sheaf, And the shower, And the sun, And the Father’s will.

In the sun, the moon, and sky, On the mountains wild and high, In the thunder, in the rain, In the grove, the wood, the plain, In the little birds which sing: God is seen in everything.

Jingle, jingle, go the bells; A right good time have we, Over the valleys and over the hills, Dear grandmamma to see. The day is bright, and away we go As swift as swift can be, Over the smoothly trodden snow, Dear grandmamma to see. And look, do look, for there she stands, Aunt Mary by her side, To welcome us with outstretched hands After our pleasant ride. And there are George and Carlo, too, For they heard the tell-tale bells, As over the shining road we flew, And down the slippery hills.

Down, down the hill I swiftly go, Over the ice and over the snow; A horse or cart I do not fear, For past them both my sled I steer. Hurrah, my boy, I’m going down, While you toil up; but never frown: The far hill-top you soon will gain, And then, with all your might and main, You’ll dash by me; while, full of glee, I’ll up again, to dash by thee. So on we glide—oh, life of joy; What pleasure has the little boy!

Oh, look at my kite, Almost out of sight; How swiftly it flies Right up to the skies! Pretty kite, pretty kite, Almost out of sight, Pray, what do you spy In the bright blue sky?

John White flew his kite one very windy day, But a gale broke the tail, and it soon flew away. And while he sat crying and sighing and sad, Charlie Gray came that way, a good-natured lad. “Don’t cry, wipe your eye, poor little Jack; Stay here, never fear; I’ll soon bring it back.” Up the tree went he, and took the kite down. “Many thanks, many thanks,” said dear little John.

We have a little pony, and we call him Dapple Gray, And in our little carriage we drive out every day; How our happy hearts are bounding, With his clinking hoofs resounding, And his clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way. They give our horsie water and they give our horsie hay, And they give our horsie oats for his breakfast every day; When clinking hoofs are ringing, And our happy voices singing, Then we clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way. The nicest rides we have are in the month of May, When we drive out in the country, and always some new way; Oh, the turnings and the windings, Oh, the seekings and the findings, As we clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.

Hop, hop, hop, nimble as a top, Over hill and valley bounding, With your clinking hoofs resounding: Hop, hop, hop, nimble as a top. Spare, spare, spare; sure enough, we’re there; Very well, my little pony; Safe’s our jaunt, though rough and stony: Spare, spare, spare; sure enough, we’re there. Here, here, here; yes, my pony dear: Now with hay and oats I’ll treat you, And with smiles will ever greet you, Here, here, here; yes, my pony dear.

Merry it is on a summer’s day All through the meadows to wend away, To watch the brooks glide fast or slow, And the little fish twinkle down below; To hear the lark in the blue sky sing; Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing, But ’tis merrier far to swing, to swing! Down with the hoop upon the green, Down with the ringing tambourine; Little care we for this or for that; Off with the bonnet, off with the hat: Away we go, like birds on the wing! Higher yet! higher yet! Now for the king! This is the way we swing, we swing! Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light; Mount up behind him—there, that is right; Down bends the branch, now swing him away. Higher yet! higher yet! higher, I say! Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing, “A pear for the queen and a peach for the king!” And shake the old tree as we swing, we swing.

There, go to sleep, Dolly, in mother’s own lap; I’ve put on your nightgown and neat little cap: So sleep, pretty baby, and shut up your eye; By-by, little Dolly, lie still and by-by. Now I’ll lay my clean handkerchief over your head, And then you may think that my lap is your bed; So hush, little dear, and be sure you don’t cry; By-by, little Dolly, lie still and by-by. There, now it is morning, and time to get up; I’ll crumb you a mess in my own china cup: Awake, little baby, and open your eye, For now it is time to be done with by-by.

I have a little doll, I take care of her clothes; She has soft flaxen hair, And her name is Rose. She has pretty blue eyes, And a very small nose, And a sweet little mouth— And her name is Rose. I have a little bedstead Where Dolly may repose, Or sit up like a lady— And her name is Rose.

Now, Dolly, my dear, I pray you come here; The daylight has gone, And work is all done: I’ll put you to bed, for to-morrow is Sunday, And I shall not see you again until Monday. You don’t want to go? But you ought to, you know, For it is but right; So, Dolly, good-night: Lie still without fretting or crying till Monday, For we ought not to play, Dolly dear, on a Sunday.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all. He hasn’t got a notion how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me he’s a coward, you can see; I’d think it shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed! —Robert Louis Stevenson.

There, run away, you little things, And skip and jump and play; You have been quiet long enough, So run away, I say. The sweet, fresh air so softly blows, So brightly shines the sun, That active limbs and rosy cheeks Will in the race be won. For little girls and boys may sing And frisk and jump and play, When work and lessons both are done; So run away, I say.

God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world.

God is in heaven—can he hear A feeble prayer like mine? Yes, little child, thou need’st not fear; He listeneth to thine. God is in heaven—can he see When I am doing wrong? Yes, that he can; he looks at thee All day and all night long. God is in heaven—would he know If I should tell a lie? Yes, if thou saidst it very low, He’d hear it in the sky. God is in heaven—does he care, Or is he good to me? Yes, all thou hast to eat or wear, ’Tis God that giveth thee. God is in heaven—can I go To thank him for his care? Not yet; but love him here below, And he will see it there. God is in heaven—may I pray To go there when I die? Yes, love, be good, and then one day He’ll call thee to the sky.

God only is the maker Of all things near and far; He paints the wayside flower, He lights the evening star; The winds and waves obey him; By him the birds are fed; And to us all, his children, He gives our daily bread.

As on the mother’s breast, Safe in her watchful keeping, And softly hushed to rest, The little babe is sleeping, Without a care, without a fear, Without a thought of danger near;— So on my Saviour’s grace, In Jesus’ love confiding, And till I see his face, Firm in his truth abiding, As safe, as happy I may be, For Jesus watches over me.

I think, when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men, How he called little children as lambs to his fold, I should like to have been with them then. I wish that his hands had been placed on my head, That his arms had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen his kind look when he said, “Let the little ones come unto me.” But still to his footstool in prayer I may go, And ask for a share in his love; And if I thus earnestly seek him below, I shall see him and hear him above— In that beautiful place he has gone to prepare For all who are washed and forgiven; And many dear children are gathering there, “For of such is the kingdom of heaven.” But thousands and thousands who wander and fall Never heard of that heavenly home; I wish they could know there is room for them all, And that Jesus has bid them to come. —Mrs. Luke.

“The Master has come over Jordan,” Said Hannah the mother one day; “He is healing the people who throng him With a touch of his finger, they say. “And now I shall carry the children, Little Rachel and Samuel and John; I shall carry the baby Esther For the Lord to look upon.” The father looked at her kindly, But he shook his head and smiled. “Now who but a doting mother Would think of a thing so wild?” “Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan! I feel such a burden of care; If I carry it to the Master, Perhaps I shall leave it there. “If he lay his hand on the children, My heart will be lighter, I know; For a blessing forever and ever Will follow them as they go.” So over the hills of Judah, Along the vine-rows green, With Esther asleep on her bosom, And Rachel her brothers between— ’Mong the people who hung on his teaching Or waited his touch or his word, Through the row of proud Pharisees listening— She passed to the feet of her Lord. “Now why shouldst thou hinder the Master,” Said Peter, “with children like these? Seest not how from morning to evening He teacheth, and healeth disease?” Then Christ said, “Forbid not the children; Permit them to come unto me!” And he took in his arms little Esther, And Rachel he set on his knee. And the heavy heart of the mother Was lifted all earth-care above, As he laid his hands on the brothers And blessed them with tenderest love.

I want to be like Jesus, So lowly and so meek; For no one marked an angry word That ever 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, “She hath done what she could.” Alas, I’m not like Jesus, As any one may see! O gentle Saviour, send thy grace And make me like to thee!

Jesus says that we must love him— Helpless as the lambs are we; But he very kindly tells us That our Shepherd he will be. Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us, Guard us both by night and day; Pity show to little children, Who like lambs too often stray. We are always prone to wander, Please to keep us from each snare; Teach our infant hearts to praise thee For thy kindness and thy care.

Little child, when you’re at play Do you know that Jesus sees you? He it is who made the day, Sunshine, birds, and flowers, to please you. Oh, then thank him much, and pray To be grateful every day. Little child, when you’re afraid Do you know that Christ is by you? Seek his care then—he has said, “Ask, and I will not deny you.” And he never fails to hear: He will keep you, do not fear. Little child, when you are bad Do you think that Jesus knows it? Yes; and oh, it makes him glad When you’re sorry, and disclose it. Oh, then tell him quick, and pray To grow better every day.

Never, my child, forget to pray, Whate’er the business of the day: If happy dreams have blessed thy sleep, If startling fears have made thee weep, With holy thoughts begin the day, And ne’er, my child, forget to pray. Pray him by whom the birds are fed To give to thee thy daily bread: If wealth his bounty should bestow, Praise him from whom all blessings flow: If he who gave should take away, Oh, ne’er, my child, forget to pray!

The morning bright With rosy light Has waked me from my sleep; Father, I own Thy love alone Thy little one doth keep. All through the day, I humbly pray, Be thou my guard and guide; My sins forgive, And let me live, Blest Jesus, near thy side. Oh, make thy rest Within my breast, Great Spirit of all grace; Make me like thee, Then I shall be Prepared to see thy face.

Jesus, high in glory, Lend a listening ear; When we bow before thee, Infant praises hear. Though thou art so holy, Heaven’s almighty King, Thou wilt stoop to listen When thy praise we sing. We are little children, Weak and apt to stray; Saviour, guide and keep us In the heavenly way. Save us, Lord, from sinning, Watch us day by day; Help us now to love thee, Take our sins away. Then, when Jesus calls us To our heavenly home, We would gladly answer, “Saviour, Lord, we come.”

Jesus, Saviour, Son of God, Who for me life’s pathway trod, Who for me became a child, Make me humble, meek, and mild. I thy little lamb would be; Jesus, I would follow thee: Samuel was thy child of old, Take me, too, within thy fold.

I thank thee, Lord, for quiet rest And for thy care of me; Oh, let me through this day be blest And kept from harm by thee. Oh, take my naughty heart away, And make me clean and good; Lord Jesus, save my soul, I pray, And wash me in thy blood. Oh, let me love thee; kind thou art To children such as I: Give me a gentle, holy heart; Be thou my Friend on high. Help me to please my parents dear And do whate’er they tell; Bless all my friends, both far and near And keep them safe and well.

Gracious Lord, we look to thee, Meek and humble may we be; Pride and anger put away, Make us better every day. Teach us for our friends to pray, And our parents to obey: Richest blessings from above Give them for their tender love. May we find the sweets of prayer Sweeter than our playtimes are, Love the Sabbath and the place Where we learn to seek thy face.

Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me; Bless thy little lamb to-night: Through the darkness be thou near me, Watch my sleep till morning light. All this day thy hand has led me, And I thank thee for thy care; Thou hast clothed me, warmed and fed me, Listen to my evening prayer. Let my sins be all forgiven, Bless the friends I love so well; Take me when I die to heaven, Happy there with thee to dwell. —Mary Lundie Duncan.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take: And this I beg for Jesus’ sake. Amen.

The sun has gone to rest, The bee forsakes the flower, The young bird slumbers in its nest, Within the leafy bower. Where have I been this day? Into what folly run? Forgive me, Father, when I pray, Through Jesus Christ thy Son.

Father, an orphan’s prayer receive, And listen to my plaintive cry; Thou only canst my wants relieve, Who art my Father in the sky. Thy Word has promised all I need, More than a father’s, mother’s care; Thou wilt the hungry orphan feed, And always listen to his prayer.

Hosannas were by children sung When Jesus was on earth; Then surely we are not too young To sound his praises forth. The Lord is great, the Lord is good; He feeds us from his store With earthly and with heavenly food; We’ll praise him evermore. We thank him for his gracious word, We thank him for his love; We’ll sing the praises of our Lord Who reigns in heaven above.

Oh, what can little hands do To please the King of heaven? The little hands some work may try To help the poor in misery: Such grace to mine be given! Oh, what can little lips do To please the King of heaven? The little lips can praise and pray, And gentle words of kindness say: Such grace to mine be given! Oh, what can little eyes do To please the King of heaven? The little eyes can upward look, Can learn to read God’s holy Book: Such grace to mine be given! Oh, what can little hearts do To please the King of heaven? The hearts, if God his Spirit send, Can love and trust their Saviour Friend: Such grace to mine be given! Though small is all that we can do To please the King of heaven, When hearts and hands and lips unite To serve the Saviour with delight, They are most precious in his sight: Such grace to mine be given!

Holy Bible, book divine, Precious treasure, thou art mine; Mine, to tell me whence I came; Mine, to teach me what I am; Mine, to chide me when I rove; Mine, to show a Saviour’s love: Mine art thou, to guide my youth In the paths of love and truth; Mine, to comfort in distress, If the Holy Spirit bless; Mine, to show by living faith Man can triumph over death; Mine, to tell of joys to come, And the sinner’s dreadful doom. O thou precious book divine, Precious treasure, thou art mine!

One God I must worship supreme, And ne’er before images bow; I must not speak lightly his name, But pay to my God every vow. I’m bound to remember with care The Sabbath so hallowed and pure; To honor my parents so dear, That my life may the longer endure. I never must steal, or consent To what is impure or untrue; I must not indulge discontent, Or covet my neighbor his due. Now help me, O Father in heaven, To keep these commandments with zeal, In the strength that through Jesus is given To those who are doing thy will.

I must not use God’s name in vain, Or ever speak a word profane; For those who learn to curse and swear The children of the devil are. My little lips, oh, may they be Attuned, O Lord, to honor thee.

1. Thou shalt have no gods but me; 2. Before no idol bow thy knee. 3. Take not the name of God in vain, 4. Nor dare the Sabbath-day profane. 5. Give both thy parents honor due: 6. Take heed that thou no murder do. 7. Abstain from words and deeds unclean, 8. Nor steal though thou art poor and mean, 9. Nor make a wilful lie, nor love it. 10. What is thy neighbor’s, dare not covet.

With all thy soul love God above, And as thyself thy neighbor love.

The week is passing fast away, The hours are almost done; Before I rise, the Sabbath-day Will surely be begun. Through all this week what have I done? Have I been kind to all? Have I sought anything but fun, And run at every call? Have I been still when I was bid, And ceased to make a noise? Have I been good in all I did, At lessons or at toys? I’m naughty every day I live, Say many a foolish word, But God can pardon all my sins, Through Jesus Christ my Lord. A child’s low prayer he will not scorn; I’ll pray before I sleep, And ask his love, then rest till morn, For he my soul will keep.

Haste! put your playthings all away, To-morrow is the Sabbath-day: Come, bring to me your Noah’s ark, Your pretty tinkling music cart; Because, my love, you must not play, But holy keep the Sabbath-day. Bring here your German village, please, With all its houses, gates, and trees; Your waxen doll with eyes of blue, And all her tea-things bright and new; Because, you know, you must not play, But love to keep the Sabbath-day. Now, take your Sabbath pictures down— King David with his harp and crown, Good little Samuel on his knees, And many pleasant sights like these; Because, you know, you must not play, But learn of God upon his day. There is your hymn-book: you shall learn A verse, and some sweet kisses earn; Your book of Bible stories too, Which dear mamma will read to you: I think, although you must not play, We’ll have a happy Sabbath-day.

Awake! awake! your bed forsake; To God your praises pay; The morning sun is clear and bright, With joy we hail his cheerful light: In songs of love Praise God above— It is the Sabbath-day.

How sweet is the Sabbath, the morning of rest, The day of the week which I surely love best; The morning my Saviour arose from the tomb, And took from the grave all its terror and gloom. Instruct me, my Saviour, a child though I be, I am not too young to be noticed by thee: Renew all my heart, keep me firm in thy ways; I would love thee, and serve thee, and give thee the praise.

Will you come to our Sabbath School? I really wish you would; Oh, come and join our infant class, And learn how to be good. We learn to sing, we learn to pray, In our sweet Sabbath School; And here we learn of Jesus, too, Who gave the golden rule. I know I should not steal or use The smallest thing I see, Or what I should not like to lose, If it belonged to me. And this plain rule forbids me quite To strike an angry blow, Because I should not think it right If others served me so; But any kindness others need, I’ll do it cheerfully, As I am very glad indeed When they are kind to me.

In the morn of the holy Sabbath I like in the church to see The dear little children clustered And worshiping there with me. I am sure that the gentle pastor, Whose words are like summer dew, Is cheered as he gazes over The dear little heads in the pew. Faces earnest and thoughtful, Innocent, grave, and sweet— They look in the congregation Like lilies among the wheat. And I think that the tender Master, Whose mercies are ever new, Has a special benediction For those dear little heads in the pew. When they hear, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” Or, “Suffer the babes to come,” They are glad that the loving Father Has given the lambs a home— A place of their own, with his people; He cares for me and for you. But close to his breast he gathers Those dear little heads in the pew. So I love, in the great assembly, On the Sabbath morns to see The dear little children clustered And worshiping there with me. For I know that our Heavenly Father, Whose mercies are ever new, Has a special benediction For those dear little heads in the pew. —Margaret E. Sangster.

The Careless Penny went loudly in; It rattled and rang like a piece of tin; No prayer went with it, and nobody Was helped or gladdened, and sad was he— The poor little careless giver! The Selfish Penny sank heavily, Like a lump of lead, as it well might be; No love went with it. “I might have bought So much for myself!” was his only thought— The mean little selfish giver! The Loving Penny dropped softly down, Like red, red gold from a royal crown; Pity and love made his eyes grow dim As he gave his all, and the Lord loved him— The dear little cheerful giver! —Anna Burnham Bryant.

Little hearts, O Lord, may love thee, Little minds may learn thy ways; Little hands and feet may serve thee, Little voices sing thy praise; Growing wiser, stronger, happier, Loving Jesus all their days. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long; And so make life, death, and that vast forever, One grand, sweet song. Charles Kingsley.

When little Samuel woke And heard his Maker’s voice, At every word he spoke How much did he rejoice. O blessed, happy child, to find The God of heaven so near and kind. If God would speak to me, And say he was my friend, How happy I should be, Oh, how I should attend! The smallest sin I then should fear, If God Almighty were so near. And does he never speak? Oh, yes; for in his Word He bids me come and seek The God that Samuel heard. In almost every page I see The God of Samuel calls to me.

I see the ships upon the sea That silently go by, As white upon the waters blue As doves in yonder sky. And men are glad the ships to watch That bring them many things, Silver and gold and raiment soft, Upon their broad white wings. But I would rather look upon The ship that goes afar, And takes our Saviour’s messengers Where heathen children are; And carries books, that they may read How kind our Lord has been; For such a ship, I know, must be The fairest ever seen.

B patient, B prayerful, B humble, B mild, B wise as a Solon, B meek as a child; B studious, B thoughtful, B loving, B kind, B cautious, B prudent, B truthful, refined. B cheerful, B grateful, B hopeful, B firm, B peaceful, Benevolent, willing to learn; B temp’rate in everything, touching no wine, B careful of conduct, of money, of time. B courteous, B gentle, B liberal, B just, B bold and B humble, because thou art dust; B penitent, circumspect, sound in the faith, Be active, devoted, and faithful till death.

Whatsoe’er you find to do, Do it, boys, with all your might! Never be a little true, Or a little in the right. Trifles even Lead to heaven, Trifles make the life of man; So in all things, Great or small things, Be as thorough as you can. Let no speck their surface dim— Spotless truth and honor bright! I’d not give a fig for him Who says any lie is white! He who falters, Twists or alters Little atoms when we speak, May deceive me, But believe me, To himself he is a sneak! Help the weak if you are strong, Love the old if you are young, Own a fault if you are wrong, If you’re angry, hold your tongue. In each duty Lies a beauty, If your eyelids do not shut, Just as surely And securely As a kernel in a nut! Love with all your heart and soul, Love with eye and ear and touch; That’s the moral of the whole: You can never love too much! ’Tis the glory Of the story In our babyhood begun; Hearts without it (Never doubt it) Are the worlds without a sun! Whatsoe’er you find to do, Do it, then, with all your might; Let your prayers be strong and true— Prayer, my lads, will keep you right. Pray in all things, Great and small things, Like a Christian gentleman; And for ever, Failing never, Be as thorough as you can.

“How still the baby’s lying, I cannot hear his breath: They told me he was dying; They tell me this is death. My little song-book bringing, I sat down by his bed To soothe his pains by singing-— They hushed me; he was dead. “They say that he will, rising, More beautiful appear: The story is surprising; Explain it, mother dear.” “Dear daughter, you remember The cold, dark thing you brought One morning in September— A withered worm, you thought. “I told you God had power That withered shell to break, And from it in an hour A lovely form to take. And now you see before you The empty casement lies, And, robed in splendor, o’er you The new-born being flies.” “Oh, yes, mamma; how brightly It spreads its golden wings, And flies away so lightly, The gayest of gay things. And God can give my brother An equal power to rise From this life to another And dwell above the skies.”

There is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, “Worthy is our Saviour King; Loud let his praises ring, Praise, praise for aye.” Come to that happy land, Come, come away; Why will ye doubting stand, Why still delay? Oh, we shall happy be, When, from sin and sorrow free, Lord, we shall live with thee, Blest, blest for aye. Bright, in that happy land, Beams every eye; Kept by a Father’s hand, Love cannot die. Oh, then to glory run, Be a crown and kingdom won; And bright, above the sun, We reign for aye.

“Oh, what do you think the angels say?” Said the children up in heaven. “There’s a dear little girl coming home to-day: She’s almost ready to fly away From the earth we used to live in. Let’s go and open the gates of pearl, Open them wide for the new little girl,” Said the children up in heaven. “God wanted her here where his little ones meet,” Said the children up in heaven; “She shall play with us in the golden street. She had grown too fair, she had grown too sweet, For the earth we used to live in. She needed the sunshine, this dear little girl, That gilds this side of the gates of pearl,” Said the children up in heaven. “So the King called down from the angels’ dome,” Said the children up in heaven: “‘My little darling, arise and come To the place prepared in thy Father’s home, The home that my children live in.’ Let’s go and watch at the gates of pearl, Ready to welcome the new little girl,” Said the children up in heaven. “Far down on the earth do you hear them weep?” Said the children up in heaven, “For the dear little girl has gone to sleep! The shadows fall and the night-clouds sweep O’er the earth that we used to live in: But we’ll go and open the gates of pearl— Oh, why do they weep for their dear little girl?” Said the children up in heaven. “Fly with her quickly, O angels dear,” Said the children up in heaven. “See, she is coming! Look there—look there! At the jasper light on her sunny hair, Where the veiling clouds are riven! Ah, hush, hush, hush!” All the swift wings furl, For the King himself at the gates of pearl Is taking her hand, dear, tired little girl, And leading her into heaven!

Around the throne of God in heaven Thousands of children stand— Children whose sins are all forgiven, A holy, happy band, Singing, Glory, glory, Glory be to God on high. What brought them to that world above, That heaven so bright and fair, Where all is peace and joy and love, How came those children there? Because the Saviour shed his blood To wash away their sin: Bathed in that pure and precious blood, Behold them white and clean, Singing, Glory, glory, Glory be to God on high.

Come, let us all adore him; Our hearts’ pure love we bring To him, the Babe who came from heaven, The little children’s King.

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie; Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting light, The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night. O holy child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel. —Phillips Brooks.

Once in royal David’s city Stood a lowly cattle-shed, Where a mother laid her Baby In a manger for his bed. Mary was that mother mild, Jesus Christ her little Child. He came down to earth from heaven, Who is God and Lord of all, And his shelter was a stable, And his cradle was a stall. With the poor and mean and lowly Lived on earth our Saviour holy. For he is our childhood’s pattern, Day by day like us he grew; He was little, weak and helpless, Tears and smiles like us he knew. And he feeleth for our sadness, And he shareth in our gladness. And our eyes at last shall see him, Through his own redeeming love, For that Child so dear and gentle Is our Lord in heaven above. And he leads his children on To the place where he has gone. Not in that poor lowly stable, With the oxen standing by, We shall see him, but in heaven, Set at God’s right hand on high, When like stars his children, crowned All in white shall wait around.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore him, in slumber reclining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all!

Ring out the bells for Christmas, The happy, happy day, In winter wild the holy Child Within the cradle lay. Oh, wonderful! the Saviour Is in a manger lone; His palace is a stable, And Mary’s arm his throne. On Bethlehem’s quiet hillside, In ages long gone by, In angel notes the glory floats, “Glory to God on high.” Yet wakes the sun as joyous As when the Lord was born, And still he comes to greet you On every Christmas morn. Where’er his sweet lambs gather Within his gentle fold, The Saviour dear is waiting near, As in the days of old. In each young heart you meet him, In every guileless face You see the holy Jesus Who grew in truth and grace. Then sing your gladsome carols, And hail the new-born Son; For Christmas light is passing bright, It smiles on every one. And feast Christ’s little children, His poor, his orphan call; For he who chose the manger He loveth one and all.

While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around. “Fear not,” said he—for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind— “Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.” “To you, in David’s town this day, Is born of David’s line A Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, And this shall be the sign: The heavenly Babe you there shall find To human view displayed, All meanly wrapt in swathing bands, And in a manger laid.” Thus spake the seraph, and forthwith Appeared a shining throng Of angels praising God, and thus Addressed their joyful song: “All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace: Good-will henceforth, from heaven to men, Begin and never cease.”

Joyously the angels sang Long ago at Christmas. Every note of praise which rang Told the birth of Jesus. Shepherds wondering looked around, Tidings heard of Jesus. Upon a manger soon they found Christ, the baby Jesus. So may we to-day behold In our hearts this Jesus. —Marie Belle Coles.

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber; Holy angels guard thy bed; Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head. Soft and easy is thy cradle; Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay When his birthplace was a stable, And his softest bed was hay. See the kindly shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky; Where they sought him, there they found him, With his virgin mother by. Lo, he slumbers in the manger Where the hornèd oxen fed! Peace, my darling, here’s no danger, Oxen stand not near thy bed. Mayst thou live to know and fear him, Trust and love him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near him, See his face and sing his praise! —Watts.

God wants the boys with all their joys, That he as gold may make them pure, And teach them hardness to endure; His HEROES brave he’ll have them be, Fighting for truth and purity.

Oh, were you ne’er a schoolboy? And did you never train, And feel the swelling of the heart You ne’er will feel again? Did you never meet, far down the street, With plumes and banners gay, While the kettle, for the kettledrum, Played your march, march away? It seems to me but yesterday, Nor scarce so long ago, Since all our school their muskets took To charge the fearful foe. Our muskets were of cedar-wood, With ramrod bright and new; With bayonet forever set, And painted barrel, too. We charged upon a flock of geese And put them all to flight, Except one sturdy gander That thought to show us fight. But ah! we knew a thing or two— Our captain wheeled the van; We routed him, we scouted him, Nor lost a single man! Our captain was as brave a lad As e’er commission bore; And brightly shone his new tin sword; A paper cap he wore. He led us up the steep hillside, Against the western wind, While the cockerel plume which decked his head Streamed bravely out behind. We shouldered arms, we carried arms, We charged the bayonet, And woe unto the mullein-stalk That in our course we met. At two o’clock the roll we called, And till the close of day, With fearless hearts though tired limbs, We fought the mimic fray Till the supper-bell, from out the dell, Bade us march, march away.

“How big was Alexander, pa, That people call him great? Was he like old Goliath tall, His spear a hundred weight? “Was he so large that he could stand Like some tall steeple high, And while his feet were on the ground His hands could touch the sky?” “Oh! no, my child; about as large As I or Uncle James. ’Twas not his stature made him great, But greatness of his name.” “His name so great? I know ’tis long, But easy quite to spell; And more than half a year ago I knew it very well.” “I mean, my child, his actions were So great he got a name That everybody speaks with praise Who tells about his fame.” “Well, what great actions did he do? I want to know it all.” “Why, he it was that conquered Tyre And leveled down her wall, “And thousands of her people slew, And then to Persia went, And fire and sword on every side Through many a region sent. “A hundred conquered cities shone With midnight burnings red; And, strewed o’er many a battle-ground, A thousand soldiers bled.” “Did killing people make him great? Then why was Abdel Young, Who killed his neighbor training-day, Put into jail and hung? “I never heard them call him great.” “Why, no—'twas not in war, And him that kills a single man His neighbors all abhor.” “Well, then, if I should kill a man, I’d kill a hundred more; I should be great, and not get hung Like Abdel Young before.” “Not so, my child, ’twill never do; The Gospel bids be kind.” “Then they that kill, and they that praise, The Gospel do not mind.” “You know, my child, the Bible says That you must always do To other people as you wish To have them do to you.” “But, pa, did Alexander wish That some strong man would come And burn his house and kill him, too, And do as he had done? “And everybody called him great For killing people so— Well, now, what right he had to kill I should be glad to know. “If one should burn the buildings here, And kill the folks within, Would anybody call him great For such a wicked thing?”

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flames that lit the battled wreck Shone round him o’er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A brave though childlike form. The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father’s word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud—“Say, father, say If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. “Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone;” And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair; And shouted but once more aloud, “My father, must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder-sound— The boy—oh, where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast and helm and pennon fair That well had borne their part— But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart. —Mrs. Hemans.

The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play: “Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see, To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me. And take these cakes I made for him— They are hot and smoking yet; You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set.” Then the good wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long, And set the turf ablazing And brought the coarse black bread, That he might find a fire at night, And find the table spread. And Peter left the brother With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow’s tender shade; And told them they’d see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go In the very darkest night! For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear, He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear. Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a bird’s nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm. And now with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place; Alas! if only the old blind man Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent, And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went. And now, as the day was sinking And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again, Shading her anxious eyes. She saw the shadows deepen And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track. But she said: “He will come at morning, So I need not fret or grieve; Though it isn’t like my boy at all To stay without my leave.” But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he And across the dike while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound. “Oh, well for us,” said Peter, “That the gates are good and strong And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long. You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter; “I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes, But our sluices keep you safe.” But hark! through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child’s face pales with terror And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender childish hand. ‘Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But young as he is he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear; For he knows that the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night; And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might. And the boy! He has seen the danger, And shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh; He lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him Save the echo of his call. He sees no hope, no succor, His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait Though he perish at his post? So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea, Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company, He thinks of his brother and sister Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother; Of himself as dying—and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last; But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast. The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all the night. And now she watches the pathway As yester eve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door; Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before. “He is dead,” she cries, “my darling!” And the startled father hears, And comes and looks the way she looks And fears the thing she fears: Till a glad shout from the hearers Thrills the stricken man and wife— “Give thanks, for your son has saved our land And God has saved his life!” So there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy. ’Tis many a year since then; but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good. And every man in that country Takes his small son by the hand And tells him of little Peter Whose courage saved the land. They have many a valiant hero Remembered through the years, But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears. And his deed shall be sung at the cradle, And told to the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea.

No need of blazoned shield To mark our country’s story; No need of battle’s gory field To tell of fame and glory; These are but baubles in the dust; Here rests our fame—“In God we trust!” He whose unerring hand Guides nations in their blindness Doth wield at once, in every land, The scepter of his kindness. He is the Good, the Great, the Just: This is our strength—“In God we trust!” But speed the day when we, A great and glorious nation, In right and might, on land and sea, Are Christ’s in imitation, Striving for this—and strive we must— Our motto is, “In God we trust!”

My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the Pilgrims’ pride, From ev’ry mountain-side Let freedom ring. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees, Sweet freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake, Let all who breathe partake, Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong. Our fathers’ God, to thee, Author of liberty, To thee we sing: Long may our land be bright With freedom’s holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King.

The breaking waves clashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed, And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o’er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame: Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear: They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave’s foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared— This was their welcome home. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels from the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith’s pure shrine. Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod— They have left unstained what there they found, Freedom to worship God. —Mrs. Hemans.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, “This is my own, my native land!” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well: For him no minstrel raptures swell: High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored and unsung. —Sir Walter Scott.