| GRACE FOR A CHILD |
Here, a little child, I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on us all. AMEN. |
| --Robert Herrick. |
OLD TIME VERSES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN
| AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF |
How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower! How skillfully she builds her cell! How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well. With the sweet food she makes. In works of labor or of skill I would be busy, too: For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be pass'd; That I may give for every day Some good account at last. |
| --Isaac Watts. |
| AGAINST PRIDE IN CLOTHES |
How proud we are! how fond to show Our clothes, and call them rich and new, When the poor sheep and silkworm wore That very clothing long before. The tulip and the butterfly Appear in gayer coats than I; Let me be dress'd fine as I will, Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still. Then will I set my heart to find Inward adornings of the mind; Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace! These are the robes of richest dress. No more shall worms with me compare, This is the raiment angels wear; The Son of God, when here below, Put on this best apparel, too. It never fades, it ne'er grows old, Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould; It takes no spot, but still refines; The more 't is worn the more it shines. In this on earth would I appear, Then go to heaven and wear it there; God will approve it in His sight, 'Tis His own work and His delight. |
| --Isaac Watts. |
| THE ANT, OR EMMET |
These emmets, how little they are in our eyes! We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies, Without our regard or concern; Yet, as wise as we are, if we went to their school, There's many a sluggard and many a fool Some lessons of wisdom might learn. They wear not their time out in sleeping or play, But gather up corn in a sunshiny day, And for winter they lay up their stores; They manage their work in such regular forms One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms, And so brought their food within doors. But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant If I take not due care for the things I shall want, Nor provide against dangers in time; When death or old age shall once stare in my face, What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days If I trifle a way all their prime! Now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom, Let me think what shall serve me when sickness shall come, And pray that my sins be forgiven; Let me read in good books, and believe, and obey, That, when death turns me out of this cottage of clay, I may dwell in a palace in heaven. |
| --Isaac Watts. |