Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes: For ye could draw th' admiring gaze Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, Ye felt it all renew'd. What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. "A joyful and a pleasant thing it is to be thankful." WHY SO stately, maiden fair, Rising in thy nurse's arms With that condescending air; Gathering up thy queenly charms, Like some gorgeous Indian bird, Which, when at eve the balmy copse is stirr'd, Th' irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep? Not as yet she comprehends How the tongues of men reprove, But a spirit o'er her bends, Train'd in heaven to courteous love, Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look.-- Who for her maiden bounty, full and free, And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay. Therefore, lo, she opens wide Both her blue and wistful eyes, Breathes her grateful chant, to chide Little babes and angels bright— They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night, The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive. We see it and we hear, But wonder not: for why? we feel it all too near. Not in vain, when feasts are spread, To the youngest at the board Call we to incline the head, And pronounce the solemn word. Not in vain they clasp and raise The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise,- How little ones before the Lord may fall, How to His lov'd caress Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. Children in their joyous ranks, As you pace the village street, Fill the air with smiles and thanks If but once one babe you greet. Never weary, never dim, From thrones seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. Babes and angels grudge no praise: But elder souls, to whom His saving ways Are open, fearless take Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. Save our blessings, Master, save From the blight of thankless eye: Teach us for all joys to crave Benediction pure and high, Own them given, endure them gone, Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them won: Prize them as rich odours, meet For Love to lavish on His sacred feet; Prize them as sparkles bright Of heavenly dew, from yon o'erflowing well of light. MILMAN. THE HEBREW WEDDING. To the sound of timbrels sweet, With thy yellow torches gleaming, Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast, And the mirth and wine have ceast ; And now we set thee down before The jealously-unclosing door; CHORUS OF MAIDENS. Now the jocund song is thine, How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, Violets, when the dews of eve A moist and tremulous glitter leave |