MY BIRTH-DAY.

Look to the pure heaven smiling beyond thee!

Rest not content in thy darkness,

—a clod; Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labor! all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God!

197

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

BENEATH the moonlight and the snow
Lies dead my latest year;
The winter winds are wailing low

Its dirges in my ear.

I grieve not with the moaning wind

As if a loss befell;

Before me, even as behind,

God is, and all is well!

His light shines on me from above,
His low voice speaks within,—
The patience of immortal love

Outwearying mortal sin.

198

MY BIRTH-DAY.

Not mindless of the growing years

Of care and loss and pain,
My eyes are wet with thankful tears
For blessings which remain.

If dim the gold of life has grown,

I will not count it dross,

Nor turn from treasures still my own,

To sigh for lack and loss.

The years no charm from Nature take;

As sweet her voices call,

As beautiful her mornings break,

As fair her evenings fall.

Love watches o'er my quiet ways,
Kind voices speak my name,
And lips that find it hard to praise
Are slow, at least, to blame.

How softly ebb the tides of will!
How fields, once lost or won,
Now lie behind me green and still

Beneath a level sun!

How hushed the hiss of party hate,

The clamor of the throng!

MY BIRTH-DAY.

How old, harsh voices of debate
Flow into rhythmic song!

Methinks the spirit's temper grows
Too soft in this still air;

Somewhat the restful heart foregoes
Of needed watch and prayer.

The bark by tempest vainly tossed
May founder in the calm,

And he who braved the polar frost
Faint by the isles of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years
The outflung heart of youth,
Than pleasant songs in idle years
The tumult of the truth.

Rest for the weary hands is good,
And love for hearts that pine,

But let the manly habitude

Of upright souls be mine.

199

Let winds that blow from heaven refresh,

Dear Lord, the languid air;

And let the weakness of the flesh

Thy strength of spirit share.

200

REJOICING IN GOD.

And, if the eye must fail of light,
The ear forget to hear,

Make clearer still the spirit's sight,
More fine the inward ear!

Be near me in mine hours of need
To soothe or cheer, or warn,
And down these slopes of sunset lead
As up the hills of morn!

J. G. WHITTIER.

REJOICING IN GOD.

THE bird not always mounteth on the wing,
Nor doth he always his sweet music pour;
But, as he silent on the branch doth swing,
He ever ready is to sing or soar.

The music heard not lingers on his tongue;
His flight is poising ere it upward rise;
Thus shall his sudden harp of joy be strung,
And thou shalt see him mounting to the skies..

Oh, Christian, be it ever thus with thee,

When, sitting here, thou with the earth dost blend;

LITTLE STREAMS.

20J

Still, as we mark thee, let us always see

Thou hast a wing just poising to ascend,— And that the song which hath no outward voice, Still, in the inward soul, fails never to rejoice.

T. C. UPHAM.

LITTLE STREAMS.

LITTLE streams are light and shadow;
Flowing through the pasture meadow;
Flowing by the green way-side,

Through the forest dim and wide,
Through the hamlet still and small-

By the cottage, by the hall,

By the ruin'd abbey still,

Turning here and there a mill,

Bearing tribute to the river—

Little streams, I love

you ever.

Summer music is there flowing

Flowering plants in them are growing;

Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small;

Little birds come down to drink,

Fearless of their leafy brink;