There's no dearth of kindness, From the heart it sendeth Smiles of heaven in token. There be none so lowly But have some angel-touch : Yet, nursing love unholy, We live for self too much! As the wild-rose bloweth, In the heart for ever. But if men will hanker Aye for golden dust, Best of hearts will canker, Brightest spirits rust. There's no dearth of kindness Only, in our blindness, We gather thorns for flowers! Cherish God's best giving, Falling from above! Life were not worth living, Were it not for love. Gerald Massey. REGARD TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS. There is a plant that in its cell All trembling seems to stand, And bends its stalk, and folds its leaves, And thus there is a conscious nerve Within the human breast, That, from the rude and careless hand, The pressure rude, the touch severe, A nameless thrill, a secret tear, A torture undefined. Oh, you who are by nature formed And be it still your joy to raise The wound you never made. Whene'er you see the feeling mind, Oh, let this care begin! And, though the cell be ne'er so low, Respect the guest within. L. H. Sigourney. LITTLES. Faith, little as a mustard-seed, The little title of a "Lamb" It was our blessed Saviour's name, The Spirit, like a little dove, On Jesus once descended; To show his meekness and his love A little timely zeal is good, And, when in tribulation, A little patience brings the soul A little daily cheerfulness, A little self-denial, Will make our lighter troubles less, The good and tender-hearted ; 'Tis firmer than a chain of gold, And never can be parted. Then let love's little labors be Be one in love's communion! Selected. THE GOOD HEART. Look how a slender rivulet steals along, In windings devious through a meadow's grass! Its waters all too scant to raise a song Of murmurous pleasure unto all that pass: Wherefore, with lowly aim, it doth but seek The thirsting herbage to refresh unseen; Whereat, each tiny leaf and floweret meek Doth clothe itself with sweets and livelier green. So the good heart, who hath no store of wealth His poorer neighbors to enrich withal, Doeth his little kindnesses by stealth, That so the world may not perceive at all; Nor should we know the virtues which he hath, Save for the brightening looks that mark his humble path. Thomas Hood. |