But brightly God's rich sunshine streams
Into my cottage door;
And not a picture on her walls,
Hath beauty unto me,
Like that which from my window frame
I daily lean to see.

She has known such pomp, she careth not,
For any humble sight;
Flowers bending o'er the brook's green edge,
To her give no delight;
She tends her costly eastern bird
With gold upon its wing;
But her wild roses bloom for me,
For me her wild birds sing.

She tires of home, and fain would see
The brightest clime of earth,
And so she sails for summer lands
With friends to share her mirth;
She waves her jewelled hand to me
The opal spray-clouds fly;
She leaves me with the fading shore--
Do I envy her? not I.

She will see the sailor's hardened palms
Curbing the toiling sails,
She will faint beneath the tropic calms
And face the angry gales.
She will labor for her happiness