FAIN, O my child, I'd have thee know,
The God whom angels love:

And teach thee feeble strains below,
Akin to theirs above.

118

TEACHING LITTLE CHILDREN.

O when thy lisping tongue shall read
Of truths divinely sweet,

May'st thou, a little child indeed,
Sit down at Jesus' feet.

I'll move thine ear, I'll point thine eye -
But ah! the inward part

Great God, the Spirit! hear the sigh
That trembles through my heart!

Break, with thy vital beam benign,
O'er all the mental wild!
Bright o'er the human chaos shine,
And sanctify my child.

TEACHING LITTLE CHILDREN.

MRS. VOKE.

O SAY not, think not, heavenly notes
To childish ears are vain,
That the young mind at random floats,
And cannot reach the strain.

Was not our Lord a little child,
Taught by degrees to pray,
By father dear and mother mild
Instructed day by day?

THE PURE IN HEART.

And loved he not of heaven to talk
With children in his sight,
To meet them in his daily walk,
And to his arms invite?

And though some tones be weak and low,
What are all prayers beneath,

But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thought they breathe?

In his own words we Christ adore;
But angels, as we speak,
Higher above our meaning soar
Than we o'er children weak.

And yet his words mean more than they,
And yet he owns their praise;
O, think not that he turns away
From infants' simple lays!

THE PURE IN HEART.

BLEST are the pure in heart,
For they shall see our God,
The secret of the Lord is theirs,
Their soul is His abode.

119

KEBLE.

120

THE CHILD AND THE ANGELS.

Still to the lowly soul
He doth Himself impart,

And for His temple and His throne
Selects the pure in heart.

THE CHILD AND THE ANGELS.

THE Sabbath's sun was setting low,
Amidst the clouds at even ;

"Our Father," breathed a voice below, -
Father, who art in heaven."

Beyond the earth, beyond the clouds,
Those infant words were given ;
"Our Father," angels sang aloud.-
"Father, who art in heaven."

KEBLE

"Thy kingdom come," still from the ground, That child-like voice did pray;

"Thy kingdom come," God's hosts resound, Far up the starry way.

"Thy will be done," with little tongue,
That lisping love implores;
"Thy will be done," the angelic throng
Sing from the heavenly shores.