I quietly sit, with my work on my knee, When a, sweet little songster comes singing to me; I hear not her wings, but I hear a soft voice, And my needle flies quickly; my heart cries, rejoice; My burdens grow lighter, my spirit more free, While this kind little songster is singing to me.
But who is this singer—can any one tell? Of what hue is her plumage, and where doth she dwell? She seems to be near, but I see not her form; Pier notes, they are welcome in sunlight or storm; Yet in vain do I seek her in cage or on tree; Say, who can this warbler, this sweet warbler be?
How varied her themes! One moment she sings Of honey-drops, bubbles, and all such bright things; Then she changes her tune; more plaintive her moan, Of life's disenchantments, and youth's visions flown— How holy each lesson! good and true she must be, The friend, who is ever thus singing to me.
I welcome her presence, as welcomes the flower The soft breath of summer, the dew and the shower; Should these be withheld, every blossom must die, And my heart would grow sad, should this sweet singer fly. So I watch for her coming, as waiteth the bee For the first rose of June,—she brings June to me.
Then say, is there no one who kindly will tell The name of this sibyl who weaveth her spell O'er all things around me, beneath me, above, And warbles sweet music wherever I rove— And breathes over all a moral so pure— Hark! a soft voice replies—'tis an angel, I'm sure.
Yes, my muse is an angel, no mortal hath skill Thus to play on my heart-harp, and tune it at will To strains which can strengthen, and solace, and cheer, Bid the face beam with smiles, check the fast-falling tear. Since my songster a friend from the skies proves to be, No more need I ask—who is singing to me?
