Devotional Poetry for the Children. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      I knew a little, sickly child,

      The long, long summer’s day,

      When all the world was green and bright,

      Alone in bed to lay;

      There used to come a little dove

      Before his window small,

      And sing to him with her sweet voice,

      Out of the fir-tree tall.

      And when the sick child better grew,

      And he could creep along,

      Close to that window he would come,

      And listen to her song.

      He was so gentle in his speech,

      And quiet at his play,

      He would not, for the world, have made,

      That sweet bird fly away.

      There is a Holy Dove that sings

      To every listening child, —

      That whispers to his little heart

      A song more sweet and mild.

      It is the Spirit of our God

      That speaks to him within;

      That leads him on to all things good,

      And holds him back from sin.

      And he must hear that “still, small voice,”

      Nor tempt it to depart, —

      The Spirit, great and wonderful,

      That whispers in his heart.

      He must be pure, and good, and true;

      Must strive, and watch, and pray;

      For unresisted sin, at last,

      May drive that Dove away.

      Teach us to pray

      Oh, Father! we look up to Thee,

      And this our one request shall be,

      Teach us to pray.

      Teach us to pray.

      A form of words will not suffice, —

      The heart must bring its sacrifice:

      Teach us to pray.

      Teach us to pray.

      To whom shall we, Thy children, turn?

      Teach Thou the lesson we would learn:

      Teach us to pray.

      Teach us to pray.

      To Thee, alone, our hearts look up:

      Prayer is our only door of hope;

      Teach us to pray.

      Suppose the little cowslip

      Should hang its tiny cup,

      And say, “I’m such a little flower,

      I’d better not grow up.”

      How many a weary traveler

      Would miss the fragrant smell?

      How many a little child would grieve

      To miss it from the dell!

      Suppose the glistening dew-drop,

      Upon the grass, should say,

      “What can a little dew-drop do?

      I’d better roll away.”

      The blade on which it rested,

      Before the day was done,

      Without a drop to moisten it,

      Would wither in the sun.

      Suppose the little breezes

      Upon a summer’s day,

      Should think themselves too small to cool

      The traveler on his way:

      Who would not miss the smallest

      And softest ones that blow,

      And think they made a great mistake

      If they were talking so?

      How many deeds of kindness

      A little child may do,

      Although it has so little strength,

      And little wisdom, too.

      It wants a loving spirit,

      Much more than strength, to prove,

      How many things a child may do

      For others by his love.

      How radiant the evening skies!

      Broad wing of blue in heaven unfurled,

      God watching with unwearied eyes

      The welfare of a sleeping world.

      He rolls the sun to its decline,

      And speeds it on to realms afar,

      To let the modest glowworm shine,

      And men behold the evening star.

      He lights the wild flower in the wood,

      He rocks the sparrow in her nest,

      He guides the angels on their road,

      That come to guard us while we rest

      When blows the bee his tiny horn,

      To wake the sisterhood of flowers,

      He kindles with His smile the morn,

      To bless with light the winged hours.

      O God! look down with loving eyes

      Upon Thy children slumbering here,

      Beneath this tent of starry skies,

      For heaven is nigh, and Thou art near.

      Turn not from him, who asks of thee

      A portion of thy store;

      Poor though in earthly goods thou be,

      Thou yet canst give, – what’s more,

      The balm of comfort thou canst pour

      Into his grieving mind,

      Who oft is turned from wealth’s proud door,

      With many a word unkind.

      Does any from the false world find

      Naught but reproach and scorn?

      Does any, stung by words unkind,

      Wish that he ne’er was born?

      Do thou raise up his drooping heart,

      Restore his wounded mind;

      Though naught of wealth thou canst impart,

      Yet still thou mayest be kind.

      And oft again thy words shall wing

      Backward their course to thee,

      And in thy breast will prove a spring

      Of pure felicity.

      How do the leaves grow,

      In spring, upon their stems?

      Oh!