 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
202
THE DESERT FOUNTAIN.
Distant lies a torrid desert, where the sunbeams ever glow,
Where the red air hotly trembles, and the deadly simooms blow,
And long troops of men and camels wander wearily and slow.
Where the red air hotly trembles, and the deadly simooms blow,
And long troops of men and camels wander wearily and slow.
Just beside the scorching pathway, trod by many a weary band,
Lies a fertile green oasis, beautiful as fairy-land,
Rising like an isle enchanted, from the desert sea of sand.
Lies a fertile green oasis, beautiful as fairy-land,
Rising like an isle enchanted, from the desert sea of sand.
There a crystal fountain gushes purely from its mossy bed,
There the soft grass, springing freshly, is with fragrant blossoms spread,
And rich fruits hang ripe and heavy, from the branches overhead.
There the soft grass, springing freshly, is with fragrant blossoms spread,
And rich fruits hang ripe and heavy, from the branches overhead.
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Many a weary way-worn pilgrim, toiling slowly on his way,
Hearing far the fountain's tinkle, as it leaps in joyous play,
Turns aside to taste its coolness, tarrying till another day.
Hearing far the fountain's tinkle, as it leaps in joyous play,
Turns aside to taste its coolness, tarrying till another day.
Gratefully he quaffs the freshness of the ripples at his feet,
Gladly plucks the fruits depending where the laden branches meet,
Then reclines, refreshed and strengthened, in a slumber deep and sweet.
Gladly plucks the fruits depending where the laden branches meet,
Then reclines, refreshed and strengthened, in a slumber deep and sweet.
But though close beside the pathway lies the cool and sylvan grot,
Thousands, travel-worn and drooping, daily pass the pleasant spot,
Heeding not the fountain's murmur,—seeing not and hearing not.
Thousands, travel-worn and drooping, daily pass the pleasant spot,
Heeding not the fountain's murmur,—seeing not and hearing not.
Thus on life's wide cheerless desert, stretching far on every hand,
Gushes love's pure holy fountain, foretaste of a happier land,
Sending forth its blessed music far across the desert sand.
Gushes love's pure holy fountain, foretaste of a happier land,
Sending forth its blessed music far across the desert sand.
Many a fainting, heart-sick wanderer, toiling wearily along,
Hears its gentle invitation, and forgets all grief and wrong,
In the joy of its refreshing, and the music of its song.
Hears its gentle invitation, and forgets all grief and wrong,
In the joy of its refreshing, and the music of its song.
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But though ever sounds its singing, loud and silver-toned and clear,
Like an angel's voice of welcome to the wanderers passing near,
Yet it falls, unheard, unheeded, on full many a careless ear.
Like an angel's voice of welcome to the wanderers passing near,
Yet it falls, unheard, unheeded, on full many a careless ear.
Turn aside, oh, weary pilgrim, with slow step and tearful eye,
Rest thee by the gushing waters, till the burning hours go by,—
Turn aside and taste the blessing, ere the holy fount be dry!
Rest thee by the gushing waters, till the burning hours go by,—
Turn aside and taste the blessing, ere the holy fount be dry!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |