For works with similar titles, see
Hope.
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Within the heart a merry bird
Poured out through life's dull toils its music sweet;
What though one soul alone its warblings heard,
And to itself its carols would repeat.
Tempest nor cold could drive the bird away —
Through leafless boughs still swept its tireless song;
Sadder, perhaps, when skies were lowering, gray,
But with the rosy tints how loud, how long.
Hunger nor thirst could bid the bird depart,
Around for want's scant crumbs it warbling flew;
In the forsaken chambers of the heart,
Through poverty, its lays the sweeter grew.
And when despair the cage wide open set,
Still did it linger, still it would not go —
Its daily welcome it could not forget,
It had its cheering notes even for woe!
And when affection's hand must loose its hold,
And loving accents fail the death-dulled ear,
Still in the heart its wings 't will softly fold,
Still will its song the passing spirit cheer.
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