That something says without a sound, "Take care, dear child, thou mayst be drowned!" And for the poor whene'er I grieve, That something says, "A penny give." Thus spirits good and ill there be, Although invisible to me; Whate'er I do, they see me still, But oh, good spirits! guide my will. GIVE US OUR DAILY BREAD. I knew a widow very poor, Who four small children had; The eldest was but six years old, A gentle, modest lad. And very hard this widow toiled To feed her children four: An honest pride the woman felt, Though she was very poor. To labor she would leave her home, For children must be fed; And glad was she when she could buy A shilling's worth of bread. And this was all the children had, On any day to eat; They drank their water, ate their bread, But never tasted meat. One day, when snow was falling fast, And piercing was the air, I thought that I would go and see How these poor children were. Ere long I reached their cheerless home, 'Twas searched by every breeze; When going in, the eldest child I saw upon his knees. I paused, and listened to the boy,-- He never raised his head; But still went on and said,--"_Give us_ _This day our daily bread._" I waited till the child was done, Still listening as he prayed; And when he rose, I asked him why The Lord's Prayer he had said. "Why, sir," said he, "this morning, when My mother went away, She wept because, she said, she had No bread for us to-day. "She said, we children now must starve, Our father being dead; And then I told her not to cry, For I could get some bread. "_Our Father_, sir, the prayer begins, Which makes me think that _He_, As we have got no father here, Would our kind father be. "And then, you know, the prayer, sir, too, Asks God for bread each day; So, in the corner, sir, I went, And that's what made me pray." I quickly left that wretched room, And went with fleeting feet; And very soon was back again With food enough to eat. "_I thought God heard me_," said the boy; I answered with a nod; I could not speak; but much I thought Of that child's _faith in God_. TRUE REST. Sweet is the pleasure Itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure One with true toil? Thou, that would taste it, Still do thy best; Use it, not waste it, Else, 'tis no rest. Wouldst behold beauty Near thee, all round? Only hath duty Such a sight found. Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere. 'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean, After its life. Deeper devotion Nowhere hath knelt, Fuller emotion Heart never felt. 'Tis loving and serving, The highest and best! 'Tis onward,--unswerving,-- And that is true rest.