The voices of happy nature,
And the Heaven’s sunny gleam,
Reprove thy sick heart’s fancies,
Upbraid thy foolish dream.

Listen, and I will tell thee
The song Creation sings,
From the humming of bees in the heather,
To the flutter of angels’ wings.

An echo rings for ever,
The sound can never cease;
It speaks to God of glory,
It speaks to Earth of peace.

Not alone did angels sing it
To the poor shepherds’ ear;
But the sphered Heavens chant it,
While listening ages hear.

Above thy peevish wailing
Rises that holy song;
Above Earth’s foolish clamour,
Above the voice of wrong.

No creature of God’s too lowly
To murmur peace and praise: 
When the starry nights grow silent,
Then speak the sunny days.

So leave thy sick heart’s fancies,
And lend thy little voice
To the silver song of glory
That bids the world rejoice.

VERSE:  GIVE

See the rivers flowing
Downwards to the sea,
Pouring all their treasures
Bountiful and free—­
Yet to help their giving
Hidden springs arise;
Or, if need be, showers
Feed them from the skies!

Watch the princely flowers
Their rich fragrance spread,
Load the air with perfumes,
From their beauty shed—­
Yet their lavish spending
Leaves them not in dearth,
With fresh life replenished
By their mother earth!

Give thy heart’s best treasures—­
From fair Nature learn;
Give thy love—­and ask not,
Wait not a return! 
And the more thou spendest
From thy little store,
With a double bounty,
God will give thee more.

VERSE:  MY JOURNAL

It is a dreary evening;
The shadows rise and fall: 
With strange and ghostly changes,
They flicker on the wall.

Make the charred logs burn brighter;
I will show you, by their blaze,
The half-forgotten record
Of bygone things and days.

Bring here the ancient volume;
The clasp is old and worn,
The gold is dim and tarnished,
And the faded leaves are torn.

The dust has gathered on it—­
There are so few who care
To read what Time has written
Of joy and sorrow there.

Look at the first fair pages;
Yes—­I remember all: 
The joys now seem so trivial,
The griefs so poor and small.

Let us read the dreams of glory
That childish fancy made;
Turn to the next few pages,
And see how soon they fade.

Here, where still waiting, dreaming,
For some ideal Life,
The young heart all unconscious
Had entered on the strife.

See how this page is blotted: 
What—­could those tears be mine? 
How coolly I can read you,
Each blurred and trembling line.

Now I can reason calmly,
And, looking back again,
Can see divinest meaning
Threading each separate pain.