EVERY LITTLE HELPS. Suppose a bright green leaf, that grows Upon the rosebush near, Should say, because I'm not a rose, I will not linger here; Or that a dew-drop, fresh and bright, Should say, I'll vanish out of sight, Suppose a little child should say, Dear child, each star some light can give, And our good Father who's in heaven, And doth all creatures view, To every little child has given Some needful work to do: Kind deeds toward those with whom you live, Shall 'mid the world's worst darkness give A little precious light! 239 CHOICE POEMS. 240 LITTLE DEEDS. LITTLE DEEDS. NOT mighty deeds make up the sum Of happiness below, A merry sound, to cheer the babe A glass of water timely brought, A turning of the window-blind, An early flower, unasked bestowed, - O, deeds like these, though little things, Our Heavenly Father loves to see THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT. THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT. FAIR streamlet running Where violets grow Murmuring low; Amid the grass ; As I pass; I have a fancy as I see The trailing willows kissing thee; The harebells nodding at thy side; I deem thou flowest To show the beauty Of gentle deeds; To show how happy The world might be, If man, observant, Copied thee; To show how small a stream may pour Verdure and beauty on either shore ; P 241 242 WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR? To teach what humble men might do, If their lives were pure, and their hearts were true; In modest, calm beneficence; Marking their course, as thou dost thine, By wayside flowers of love divine. CHARLES MACKAY. WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR? THY neighbor? It is he whom thou Thy neighbor? 'Tis the fainting poor, Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weary man, Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain; - Thy neighbor? 'Tis the heart bereft Of every earthly gem; Widow and orphan, helpless left; Go thou and shelter them. THE LITTLE MATCH-SELLERS. Thy neighbor? Yonder toiling slave, Whose hopes are all beyond the grave; - Whene'er thou meet'st a human form O, pass not, pass not heedless by; The breaking heart from misery ;- 243 PEABODY. THE LITTLE MATCH-SELLERS. ARE all your matches sold, Tom? Is all your selling done? Then let us to the flowery fields, To warm us in the sun. To warm us in the sweet, sweet sun, For his kind looks are the only looks We'll call the sun our father, Tom! |