We bless, O God, thy power Divine,
That watches o'er our days;
For this, our feeble voices join
In hymns of cheerful praise.
Before thy sacred footstool, we
Would bend in humble prayer,
A happy little family,
To ask thy tender care.
May we in safety sleep to-night,
From every danger free,
Because the darkness and the light
Are both alike to thee.
And when the rising sun displays
His cheering beams abroad,
Then shall our morning hymns of praise
Declare thy goodness, Lord!
Hymns for Infant Minds.
"Hark! for the storm is abroad, my child!
And the furious winds are howling wild;
But remember, that He who raised the storm
Hath power, in a moment, its rage to disarm.
"Then lift thy innocent hands on high,
To that God whose awful voice is nigh,
And beg Him to shield thy Father's head,
And guide his steps in this hour of dread."
"Mother, the storm will be hushed ere long, For the winds are now less wild and strong; There's a break in the clouds-the Moon peeps through,
And soon shall my Father smile on you."
"Hark! 'tis the sound of his welcome feet,
Haste then my child, and thy Father meet—
And forget not the God, whose mighty will
Hath said to the tempest 'Peace be still.''
Christian Child's Friend.
Oh, what is this, which shines so bright!
And, in this lonely place,
Hangs out its small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace.
It is a glow-worm,-still and pale,
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, oh nightingale !
Seem listening to thy song.
And so, amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely, and as still.
Sweet Robin, how I love to hear
Thy tuneful song this wintry day;
To me it is a sweeter song
Than any in the month of May.
Thy music is more charming now,
When not a flower or leaf is seen,
Than when the daisies deck the fields,
And all the woods are robed in green.
Thou dost not droop thy merry wing,
Though thick and cold descends the snow;
And in thy song there is no pause,
Though loud the winds and tempests blow.
But yonder comes a raging storm,
And ruffled is thy crimson breast;
Then spread thy pinions, haste away,
And shelter in thy little nest.
But come again to-morrow morn,
And sing another song to me;
And at my window thou shalt find
A crumb or two of bread for thee.
How free from care yon merry thrush,
That sings melodious on the bush;
That has no stores of wealth to keep,
No lands to plough, no corn to reap!
He never sighs for worthless things,
But lives in peace and sweetly sings;
Enjoys the present, with his mate,
Nor cares about to-morrow's fate.
Of happiness indeed possest,
He sings through life, in peace and rest; And for his daily meal relies
On Him whose love the world supplies.
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