The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | VI. |
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THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. |
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| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
279
THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.
“Who does not recollect the exultation of Vaillant over a flower in
the torrid wastes of Africa? The affecting mention of the influence of
a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering and despondency,
in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to every
one.”—
Howitt's
Book of the Seasons.
Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower;
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd
From human hearth or bower?
O lonely, loneliest flower;
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd
From human hearth or bower?
I pity thee, for thy heart of love,
For that glowing heart, that fain
Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove—
In vain, lost thing! in vain!
For that glowing heart, that fain
Would 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!
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.
“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 hath been shed.
And the paths where lovers tread;
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day,
By its odours hath been shed.
280
“Yes! dews more sweet than ever fell
O'er island of the blest,
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell,
On a suffering human breast.
O'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.
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 tide
Swept o'er his darkening eye,
As he lay down by the fountain side,
In his mute despair to die.
Swept 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.
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 prescence felt to brood,
With a spirit of pervading love,
O'er the wildest solitude.
Of the prescence felt to brood,
With a spirit of pervading love,
O'er the wildest solitude.
“Oh! the seed was thrown those wastes among
In a bless'd and gracious hour,
For the lorn one rose in heart made strong,
By the lonely, loneliest flower!”
In a bless'd and gracious hour,
For the lorn one rose in heart made strong,
By the lonely, loneliest flower!”
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |