Poems

When our little Myrtle began to learn from her "A. B.

For the wealth of pathless forests, Whereon no axe may fall; For the winds that haunt the branches; The young bird's timid call; For the red leaves dropped like rubies Upon the dark green sod; For the waving of the forests, I thank Thee, O my God! For the sound of waters gushing In bubbling beads of light; For the fleets of snow-white lilies Firm-anchored out of sight; For the reeds among the eddies; The crystal on the clod; For the flowing of the rivers, I thank Thee, O my God! For the rosebud's break of beauty Along the toiler's way; For the violet's eye that opens To bless the new-born day; For the bare twigs that in summer Bloom like the prophet's rod; For the blossoming of flowers, I thank Thee, O my God! For the lifting up of mountains, In brightness and in dread; For the peaks where snow and sunshine Alone have dared to tread; For the dark of silent gorges, Whence mighty cedars nod; For the majesty of mountains, I thank Thee, O my God! For the splendor of the sunsets, Vast mirrored on the sea; For the gold-fringed clouds that curtain Heaven's inner mystery; For the molten bars of twilight, Where thought leans, glad, yet awed; For the glory of the sunsets, I thank Thee, O my God! For the earth, and all its beauty; The sky, and all its light; For the dim and soothing shadows That rest the dazzled sight; For unfading fields and prairies, Where sense in vain has trod; For the world's exhaustless beauty, I thank Thee, O my God! For the hidden scroll o'erwritten With one dear Name adored; For the Heavenly in the human; The Spirit in the Word; For the tokens of Thy presence Within, above, abroad; For Thine own great gift of Being, I thank Thee, O my God! — Lucy Larcom. I thank my Heavenly Father for all experiences, be they sweet or bitter, which help me to forgive all things, and to enfold the whole world with a blessing.

What am I and whence? and whither? Whose the varied voice of wonder? Who would wrest a revelation from the universe at call? It is I, a sturdy Teuton, I, a man of metaphysics, And I speak for Celt or Saxon, I, an individual. It is I, an early Aztec; I, an Indian I, a Negro; It is I, a Greek, an ancient; I, a Hebrew, son of Shem; I, a Chaldee; I, Mongolian, Of a dynasty primeval; I, a mummified Egyptian, from the storied land of Khem.

God wants the boys, the merry boys, The noisy boys, the funny boys, The thoughtless boys; God wants the boys, with all their joys— That he as gold may make them pure, And teach them trials to endure. His heroes brave He'll have them be, Fighting for truth and purity; God wants the boys.

Don't just sit and pray For increase of your store, But work; who will help himself, Heaven helps more. The weeds while you're sleeping, Will come up and grow, But if you would have the Full ear, you must hoe! — Alice Carey.

My bark is wafted to the strand By breath divine,— And on the helm there rests a Hand Other than mine. One who has known in storms to sail I have on board; Above the raving of the gale I hear my Lord.

I used to walk in the valley, tho' sometimes raising my eyes To the light that glowed on the hill-top and hung in the azure skies. Now I live on the mountain; and, watching the shadows below, Reach downward to help the care-worn whose footsteps are weary and slow.

" Only a drop in the bucket, But every drop will tell; The bucket soon would be empty Without the drop in the well. Only a poor little penny; It was all I had to give; But as pennies make the dollars, It may help some cause to live.

I was wild with anxious sorrow, And knew not where to fly For help that must reach my darling Before the day went by. Must I "drink this cup?" I questioned Of Him "who knoweth all;" But an echo only answered My earnest, pleading call.

Therefore great heart, bear up! thou art but type Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through Love. Each has his lonely peak, and on each heart Envy or scorn or hatred tears lifelong, with vulture beak.