My Father made this beautiful world and gave me a
heart to love his works. Oh, may I love Him better
than all created things!
The little plat of ground around our house is a great
field of instruction and amusement to me. How
little do I comprehend of all contained within it!
I am glad I was not born in some great city—
where Nature had not been so kind and dear a friend.
Robin Red-breast on the tree,
Do you sing that song for me?
“You are listening it is true,
But I do not sing for you.
Higher yet on tiptoe rise,
Don’t you see a pair of eyes
Peeping through the pleasant shade
Which the summer leaves have made?
There they watch me all day long,
Brightening at my cheerful song,
Turning wheresoe’er I go
For the evening meal below.
Dearest mate that ever blest
Happy lover—peaceful nest,—
Guarding well our eggs of blue,
All my songs I sing for you!”
When the howling winds are high,
And the vivid lightnings fly
Through
the air;—
When the deafening thunders roll,
Peace to thee, O troubled soul—
God
is there!
When the dreary storm is past,
And the promised bow at last—
Bright
and fair—
In the cloudy sky appears,
Smiling still through Nature’s tears
God
is there!
When the tender buds unfold
Bright with purple and with gold
In
the air,—
Or, at twilight when they close
Wrapped awhile in sweet repose
God
is there!
Where the robin chants her lay
Sweetly at the dawn of day,
Or
with care
Builds her soft and downy nest,
Lulls her little brood to rest,
God
is there!
When the countless stars appear,
Ever to the listening ear
They
declare:
He who sees the sparrows fall
Made us and supports us all;
God
is there!
When the youthful knee is bent,
And to heaven is humbly sent
Grateful
prayer,—
Bending from his throne above
Full of tenderness and love
God
is there!
Though his arm sustains the spheres
’Tis the sweetest sound he hears—
Child-like
prayer;
Seek then oft the peaceful shade:
There our Blessed Saviour prayed—
God
is there!
How beautiful thou art, my native stream!
Art thou not worthy of a poet’s theme?
The Po and Tiber live in ancient lays,
And smaller streams have had their need of praise,
Art thou less lovely? True, in classic lore
Thou art unknown, and on thy quiet shore
There are no monuments of other times,
No records of the past—its woes or crimes.
