One by one the sands are flowing,One by one the moments fall;Some are coming, some are going,—Do not strive to grasp them all.One by one thy duties wait thee,Let thy whole strength go to eachLet no future dreams elate thee,Learn thou first what these can teachOne by one (bright gifts from heaven)Joys are sent thee here below;Take them readily when given,Ready, too, to let them go.One by one thy griefs shall meet thee.Do not fear an armed band;One will fade as others greet thee,Shadows passing through the land.Do not look at life’s long sorrow;See how small each moment’s pain;God will help thee for to-morrow,Every day begin again.Every hour that flits so slowly,Has its task to do or bear;Luminous the crown, and holy,If thou set each gem with care.Do not linger with regretting,Or for passing hours despond!Nor, thy daily toil forgetting,Look too eagerly beyond.Hours are golden links, God’s token,Reaching Heaven; one by oneTake them, lest the chain be brokenEre the pilgrimage be done.
One by one the sands are flowing,One by one the moments fall;Some are coming, some are going,—Do not strive to grasp them all.
One by one thy duties wait thee,Let thy whole strength go to eachLet no future dreams elate thee,Learn thou first what these can teach
One by one (bright gifts from heaven)Joys are sent thee here below;Take them readily when given,Ready, too, to let them go.
One by one thy griefs shall meet thee.Do not fear an armed band;One will fade as others greet thee,Shadows passing through the land.
Do not look at life’s long sorrow;See how small each moment’s pain;God will help thee for to-morrow,Every day begin again.
Every hour that flits so slowly,Has its task to do or bear;Luminous the crown, and holy,If thou set each gem with care.
Do not linger with regretting,Or for passing hours despond!Nor, thy daily toil forgetting,Look too eagerly beyond.
Hours are golden links, God’s token,Reaching Heaven; one by oneTake them, lest the chain be brokenEre the pilgrimage be done.
There’s not a tint that paints the rose,Or decks the lily fair,Or streaks the humblest flower that blows,But God has placed it there.At early dawn, there’s not a galeAcross the landscape driven,And not a breeze that sweeps the vale,That is not sent by Heaven.There’s not, of grass, a single blade,Or leaf of loveliest green,Where heavenly skill is not displayed,And heavenly wisdom seen.There’s not a tempest, dark and dread,Or storm that rends the air,Or blast that sweeps the ocean’s bed,But God’s own voice is there.Around,—beneath,—below,—above,—Wherever space extends,There God displays His boundless love,And power with mercy blends.
There’s not a tint that paints the rose,Or decks the lily fair,Or streaks the humblest flower that blows,But God has placed it there.
At early dawn, there’s not a galeAcross the landscape driven,And not a breeze that sweeps the vale,That is not sent by Heaven.
There’s not, of grass, a single blade,Or leaf of loveliest green,Where heavenly skill is not displayed,And heavenly wisdom seen.
There’s not a tempest, dark and dread,Or storm that rends the air,Or blast that sweeps the ocean’s bed,But God’s own voice is there.
Around,—beneath,—below,—above,—Wherever space extends,There God displays His boundless love,And power with mercy blends.
A little sunbeam stoleOn a summer’s day,Through a tiny crevice,To where a sick man lay.It played upon the wall,And upon his table:With a smile he watched itAs long as he was able.Much he loved the sunbeam,Little dancing light;It told of sunny hours,Of skies and meadows bright.Kind words are like sunbeams,Stealing into hearts;Scatter them most freely,Ere light of life departs.
A little sunbeam stoleOn a summer’s day,Through a tiny crevice,To where a sick man lay.
It played upon the wall,And upon his table:With a smile he watched itAs long as he was able.
Much he loved the sunbeam,Little dancing light;It told of sunny hours,Of skies and meadows bright.
Kind words are like sunbeams,Stealing into hearts;Scatter them most freely,Ere light of life departs.
Oh! turn that little foot aside,Nor crush beneath its tread,The smallest insect of the earth,Which has from God its bread.If He, who made the universe,Looks down in kindest love,To shape a humble thing like this,From His high throne above,Thou shouldst not dare, in wantonness,That creature’s life destroy;Nor give a pang to any thingThat He has made for joy.My child, begin in little thingsTo act the gentle part;For God may turn His love awayFrom the cruel, selfish heart.
Oh! turn that little foot aside,Nor crush beneath its tread,The smallest insect of the earth,Which has from God its bread.
If He, who made the universe,Looks down in kindest love,To shape a humble thing like this,From His high throne above,
Thou shouldst not dare, in wantonness,That creature’s life destroy;Nor give a pang to any thingThat He has made for joy.
My child, begin in little thingsTo act the gentle part;For God may turn His love awayFrom the cruel, selfish heart.
“I will be good, dear mother,”I heard a sweet child say,“I will be good,—now watch me!I will be good all day.”She lifted up her bright young eyes,With a soft and pleasing smile;Then a mother’s kiss was on her lips;So pure and free from guile.And when night came, that little one,In kneeling down to pray,Said, in a soft and whispering tone,“Have I been good to-day?”Oh, many, many bitter tears’Twould save us, did we say,Like that dear child, with earnest heart,“I will be good to-day.”
“I will be good, dear mother,”I heard a sweet child say,“I will be good,—now watch me!I will be good all day.”
She lifted up her bright young eyes,With a soft and pleasing smile;Then a mother’s kiss was on her lips;So pure and free from guile.
And when night came, that little one,In kneeling down to pray,Said, in a soft and whispering tone,“Have I been good to-day?”
Oh, many, many bitter tears’Twould save us, did we say,Like that dear child, with earnest heart,“I will be good to-day.”
I may, if I have but a mind,Do good in many ways;Plenty to do, the young may find,In these our busy days.Sad would it be, though young and small,If I were of no use at all.One gentle word that I may speak,Or one kind loving deed,May, though a trifle, poor and weak,Prove like a tiny seed;And who can tell what good may springFrom such a very little thing?Then let me try, each day and hour,To act upon this plan;What little good is in my power,To do it while I can:If to be useful thus I try,I may do better by and by.
I may, if I have but a mind,Do good in many ways;Plenty to do, the young may find,In these our busy days.Sad would it be, though young and small,If I were of no use at all.
One gentle word that I may speak,Or one kind loving deed,May, though a trifle, poor and weak,Prove like a tiny seed;And who can tell what good may springFrom such a very little thing?
Then let me try, each day and hour,To act upon this plan;What little good is in my power,To do it while I can:If to be useful thus I try,I may do better by and by.
Come, little sister, ’tis time to arise,The sun has arisen to brighten the skies;Every bird is singing high,—Birds are glad, and so am I.Merrily, merrily, those in the tree,Bluebird and Robin, are singing to me;Round the window see them fly,—Birds are glad, and so am I.Glad little robin, you never can knowWho is the Maker who fashioned you so;Yet you cannot weep nor sigh,—Birds are glad, and so am I.He who created the birds of the air,Surely will keep me from trouble and care;He has taught the birds to fly,—Birds are glad, and so am I.
Come, little sister, ’tis time to arise,The sun has arisen to brighten the skies;Every bird is singing high,—Birds are glad, and so am I.
Merrily, merrily, those in the tree,Bluebird and Robin, are singing to me;Round the window see them fly,—Birds are glad, and so am I.
Glad little robin, you never can knowWho is the Maker who fashioned you so;Yet you cannot weep nor sigh,—Birds are glad, and so am I.
He who created the birds of the air,Surely will keep me from trouble and care;He has taught the birds to fly,—Birds are glad, and so am I.
O Thou, who hast at Thy command,The hearts of all men in Thy hand!Our wayward, erring hearts inclineTo know no other will but Thine.Our wishes, our desires control;Mould every purpose of the soul;O’er all may we victorious be,That stands between ourselves and Thee.Thrice blest will all our blessings be,When we can look through them to Thee;When each glad heart its tribute paysOf love, and gratitude, and praise.
O Thou, who hast at Thy command,The hearts of all men in Thy hand!Our wayward, erring hearts inclineTo know no other will but Thine.
Our wishes, our desires control;Mould every purpose of the soul;O’er all may we victorious be,That stands between ourselves and Thee.
Thrice blest will all our blessings be,When we can look through them to Thee;When each glad heart its tribute paysOf love, and gratitude, and praise.
Up, be doing, little children:Up, be doing, while ’tis day;Do the work the Master gives you,Do not loiter by the way:For we all have work before us,Thou, my child, as well as I;Let us seek to learn our duty,And perform it cheerfully.Be up and doing, little children,Gentle be, and ever kind;Helpful to your loving mothers,E’en their slightest wishes mind.Let your little playmates love you,For your care and gentle play;And the feeble and more wilful,Help them by your kindly way.
Up, be doing, little children:Up, be doing, while ’tis day;Do the work the Master gives you,Do not loiter by the way:For we all have work before us,Thou, my child, as well as I;Let us seek to learn our duty,And perform it cheerfully.
Be up and doing, little children,Gentle be, and ever kind;Helpful to your loving mothers,E’en their slightest wishes mind.Let your little playmates love you,For your care and gentle play;And the feeble and more wilful,Help them by your kindly way.
Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered or unexpressed;The motion of a hidden fireThat glows within the breast.Prayer is the burden of a sigh,The falling of a tear,The upward glancing of an eye,When none but God is near.Prayer is the simplest form of speechThat infant lips can try;Prayer, the sublimest strains that reachThe Majesty on high.
Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered or unexpressed;The motion of a hidden fireThat glows within the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,The falling of a tear,The upward glancing of an eye,When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speechThat infant lips can try;Prayer, the sublimest strains that reachThe Majesty on high.
Angry words! O let them neverFrom the tongue unbridled slip;May the heart’s best impulse everCheck them, e’er they soil the lip.Love is much too pure and holy,Friendship is too sacred far,For a moment’s reckless follyThus to desolate and mar.Angry words are lightly spoken,Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred;Brightest links of life are brokenBy a single angry word.
Angry words! O let them neverFrom the tongue unbridled slip;May the heart’s best impulse everCheck them, e’er they soil the lip.
Love is much too pure and holy,Friendship is too sacred far,For a moment’s reckless follyThus to desolate and mar.
Angry words are lightly spoken,Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred;Brightest links of life are brokenBy a single angry word.
Father, whate’er of earthly blissThy sovereign will denies,Accepted at Thy throne of graceLet this petition rise.Give me a calm, a thankful heart,From every murmur free;The blessings of Thy grace impart,And make me live to Thee.Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine,My life and death attend;Thy presence through my journey shine,And crown my journey’s end.
Father, whate’er of earthly blissThy sovereign will denies,Accepted at Thy throne of graceLet this petition rise.
Give me a calm, a thankful heart,From every murmur free;The blessings of Thy grace impart,And make me live to Thee.
Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine,My life and death attend;Thy presence through my journey shine,And crown my journey’s end.
In the index, where two poems were listed on the same page, separate line entries were made so that each poem could have a unique link.