THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary

Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary —

What may that Desert be?

‘ Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come

Are lost, like that daylight, for‘ tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes

The water he pants for but sparkles and flies —

Who may that Pilgrim be?

‘ Tis Man, hapless Man, thro’ this life tempted on

By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro’ that Desert stealing

To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing —

What may that Fountain be?

‘ Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,

By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell

To point where those waters in secrecy dwell —

Who may that Spirit be?

‘ Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er

Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!