The dew of heaven is like His grace,
It steals in silence down;

But where it lights, the favored place,
By richest fruits is known.

Thou, who hast given me eyes to see
And love this sight so fair,

Give me a heart to find out Thee,
And read Thee everywhere.

KEBLE.

FLOWERS.

God might have made the earth bring forth Enough for great and small,

The oak-tree, and the cedar-tree,

Without a flower at all.

He might have made enough, enough

For every want of ours,

For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have made no flowers.

The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man,
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
And dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night?

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high;
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no one passes by?

Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man:

To beautify the earth;

To comfort man,

to whisper hope

Whene'er his faith is dim;

For He who careth for the flowers,

Will much more care for him!

MARY HOWITT.

THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.

The Ocean looketh up to Heaven,
As 't were a living thing,
The homage of its waves is given
In ceaseless worshipping.

They kneel upon the sloping sand,
As bends the human knee,
A beautiful and tireless band,
The Priesthood of the Sea!

They pour the glittering treasures out,
Which in the deep have birth,
And chant their awful hymns about
The watching hills of earth.

The green earth sends its incense up
From every mountain shrine,
From every flower and dewy cup
That greeteth the sunshine.

The mists are lifted from the rills
Like the white wing of prayer,
They lean above the ancient hills
As doing homage there.

The forest tops are lowly cast
O'er breezy hill and glen,
As if a prayerful spirit pass'd
On Nature as on men.

The clouds weep o'er the fallen world

E'en as repentant love;

Ere to the blessed breeze unfurl'd

They fade in light above.

The sky is as a temple's arch,
The blue and wavy air

Is glorious with the spirit-march
Of messengers of prayer.

The gentle moon the kindling sun

The many stars are given,

As shrines to burn earth's incense on
The altar fires of Heaven!

WHITTIER.

THE LITTLE CHILD AND THE ROBINS.

To an elm-tree close by our window
Two dear little robins have come,
And up in its shady, green branches
Have made them a beautiful home.

The green leaves, soft waving above them,
Are the roof that o'ershadows their nest,
And the wind, whispering gently around them,
Is the music that lulls them to rest.

When the sun comes up from the shadows,
To tell that a new day is born,

They wake up, these two little robins,

And hail the bright light with a song.

And soon their sweet carols of gladness
Awaken me out of my dreams,
And I find that the glorious sunshine

Is flooding the room with its beams.

And I offer my prayer of thanksgiving

To the great God who dwells up on high, Who takes care of the birds and the children, That not one forgotten may die.

And every night, before sleeping,
When the light no longer I see,
I pray to my Father in heaven,

To take care of the birdies and me.

And I know, if I'm good and obey him,
I'll be happy all my life long,

Till at length in His beautiful heaven,
I shall praise him forever in song.

S. S. SPEAKER.

THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER.

We were crowded in the cabin;
Not a soul would dare to sleep:
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.