“Swe-et! swe-et?” said the bird:—
“When the troubled breast is still,
And duty guides and shapes the will;—
When holy feelings upward stray,
And meet the love of Heaven mid-way—
In the heart without guile
The sweet sunbeams shall smile,
And joy all around,
Like music-drops, sound.”
“Ah, little bird, you talk just like the fairy!—She speaks to me about the inward sunshine; but, dear little bird, I want to know when the outward sunshine will come?”