A joyful and 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,

Turns the glowing neck, to chide
Th' irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide

Again its lustre deep 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,

And with wondering grave rebuke Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look.

Graceless one,

'tis all of thee, Who for her maiden bounty, full and free,

The violet from her gay 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

Our too tardy sympathies.

Little Babes and Angels bright-
They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night,

How th' all-holy Hand should give,
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,

* See Hooker, E. P. v. 31. 2.

Taught perchance by pictur'd wall 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


fearless take Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer


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.



“ The sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice' den."

Thou mak'st me jealous, Infant dear ;

Why wilt thou waste thy precious smiles,

Thy beckonings blithe, and joyous wiles,
On bird or insect gliding near ?

Why court the deaf and blind ?
What is this wondrous sympathy,
That draws thee so, heart, ear, and eye,

Towards the inferior kind ?

We tempt thee much to look and sing,

Thy mimic notes are rather drawn

From feathered playmates on the lawn.
The quivering moth or bee's soft wing,


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