Ah! when our rich blessings, My child, we forget; When for some little trouble We murmur and fret; Hear sweet voices singing In hedges and trees: Shall we be less thankful, Less trustful than these? THE LARK. Ah! little lark, I see you there, So very, very high; Just like a little, tiny speck Up in the clear blue sky. How good is He, who strengthens thus Your slight and tender wing, And teaches such a little throat So sweet a song to sing. EFFORT. Scorn not the slightest word nor deed, Nor deem it void of power; There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed, That waits its natal hour. A whispered word may touch the heart, And call it back to life; A look of love bid sin depart, And still unholy strife. No act falls fruitless; none can tell How vast its powers may be, Nor what results, unfolded, dwell Within it, silently. Work on,--despair not,--bring thy mite, Nor care how small it be; God is with all who serve the right, The holy, true, and free. THE SEA SHELL. There is found a tiny sea shell, Half-imbedded in the sand, Sometimes flashing in the moonlight, Like a diamond on the strand. And from out the winding chambers That are hid within the shell, Ever steals a curious music, That doth never sink nor swell. But, like the far-off voice of ocean, Murmurs forth its monotone, Holding thus within its bosom E'er an ocean of its own. Thus the sea shells ever gather Little oceans in their breasts, Which do echo there for ever Ocean's hymn, which never rests. Thus the soul will echo music, Born in heaven, and not of earth; And give praises all, for ever, To the One that gave it birth. GOD IS GOOD. Morn amid the mountains, Lovely solitude, Gushing streams and fountains, Murmur, "God is good." Now the glad sun, breaking, Pours a golden flood; Deepest vales awaking, Echo, "God is good." Wake and join the chorus, Man with soul endued! He, whose smile is o'er us, God,--our God,--is good. DESPISE NOT SIMPLE THINGS. Despise not simple things: The humblest flower that wakes In early spring, to scent the air Of woodland brakes, Should have thy love as well As blushing parlor rose, That never felt the perfect breath Of nature round it close. Despise not simple things: The poor demand thy love, As well as those who in the halls Of splendor move. The beggar at thy door Thou shouldst not e'er despise; For that may be a noble heart Which 'neath his tatters lies. Despise not little things: An ant can teach of toil; The buttercup can light the heart With its own pleasant smile; 'Tis not from towering heights alone The noble thought within us springs; There's something holy and sublime In the love of simple things.