The Flower of the Desert

Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast,O lonely, loneliest flower!Where the sound of song hath never pass’dFrom human hearth or bower?

I pity thee, for thy heart of love,For that glowing heart, that fainWould breathe out joy with each wind to rove--In vain, lost thing! in vain!

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom,For thy glory’s fleeting hour,For the desert place, thy living tomb--O lonely, loneliest flower!

I said--but a low voice made reply,“Lament not for the flower!Though its blossoms all unmark’d must die,They have had a glorious dower.

“Though it bloom afar from the minstrel’s way,And the paths where lovers tread;Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day,By its odours have been shed.

“Yes! dews more sweet than ever fellO’er island of the blest,Were shaken forth, from its purple bell,On a suffering human breast.

“A wanderer came, as a stricken deer,O’er the waste of burning sand,He bore the wound of an Arab spear,He fled from a ruthless band.

“And dreams of home in a troubled tideSwept o’er his darkening eye,As he lay down by the fountain-side,In his mute despair to die.

“But his glance was caught by the desert’s flower,The precious boon of heaven;And sudden hope, like a vernal shower,To his fainting heart was given.

“For the bright flower spoke of One above--Of the presence felt to brood,With a spirit of pervading love,O’er the wildest solitude.

“Oh! the seed was thrown those wastes amongIn a bless’d and gracious hour,For the lorn one rose in heart made strongBy the lonely, loneliest flower!”