160 JAMES H. PERKINS. [1830-40. Her word, to teach us, may bid stop The noonday sun ; yea, she is able To make an ocean of a drop, Or spread a kingdom on our table. In her great name we need but call Scott, Schiller, Shakspeare, and, behold! The suffering Mary smiles on all, And Falstaff riots as of old. Then, wherefore should we leave this hearth. Our books, and all our pleasant labors. If we can have the whole round earth. And still retain our home and neighbors? Why wish to roam in other lands ? Or mourn that poverty hath bound us ? We have our hearts, our heads, our hands, Enough to live on, — friends around us, — And, more than all, have hope and love, Ah, dearest, while these last, be sure That, if there be a God above, We are not, and cannot be poor ! SONG. Oh ! merry, merry be the day. And bright the star of even — For 'tis our duty to be gay, And tread in holy joy our way ; Grief never came from Heaven, My love — It never came from Heaven. Then let us not, though woes betide. Complain of fortune's spite, love ; As rock-encircled trees combine. And nearer grow, and closer twine, So let our heai'ts unite, My love — So let our hearts unite. And though the circle here be small Of heartily approved ones, There is a home beyond the skies. Where vice shall sink and virtue rise, Till all become the loved ones, Love — Till all become the loved ones. Then let your eye be laughing still. And cloudless be your brow ; For in that better world above, O! many myriads shall we love, As one another now, My love — As one another now. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG CHILD. Stand back, uncovered stand, for lo ! The parents who have lost their child Bow to the majesty of woe ! He came, a herald from above, — Pure from his God, he came to them, Teaching new duties, deeper love ; And, like the boy of Bethlehem, He grew in stature and in grace. From the sweet spii-it of his face They learned a new, more heavenly joy, And were the better for their boy. But God hath talicn whom he gave, Recalled the messenger he sent ; And now beside the infant's grave The spirit of the strong is bent. But though the tears must flow, the heart Ache with a vacant, strange distress, — Ye did not from your infant part When his cleai' eye grew meaningless. That eye is beaming still, and still Upon his Father's errand he, Your own dear, bright, unearthly boy, Worketh the kind, mysterious will. And from this .fount of bitter grief Will bring a stream of joy ; — O, may this be your faith and your reUef !
