An exile, ill in heart and frame,-- A wanderer, weary of the way-- A stranger, without love's sweet claim On any heart, go where I may!

Did you ever hear Of the frolic fairies dear? They're a blessed little race, Peeping up in fancy's face, In the valley, on the hill, By the fountain and the rill Laughing out between the leaves That the loving summer weaves.

Within the oyster's shell uncouth The purest pearl may hide, Trust me you'll find a heart of truth Within that rough outside.

With strength to meet sorrow, and faith to endure

Labor! all labor is noble and holy! Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

Call me names, dearest! Call me thy bird That flies to thy breast at one cherishing word, That folds its wild wings there, ne'er dreaming of flight, That tenderly sings there in loving delight! Oh! my sad heart keeps pining for one fond word,-- Call me pet names, dearest! Call me thy bird!

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth.

And wheresoever, in his rich creation, Sweet music breathes--in wave, or bird, or soul-- 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation Of that great tune to which the planets roll!

Better confide and be deceiv'd, A thousand times, by treacherous foes, Than once accuse the innocent, Or let suspicion mar repose.

No grief so soft, no pain so sweet, as love's delicious melancholy.