 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
138
THE HEATH IN THE DESERT.
“He shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh.”—
Jeremiah, xvii., 6.
There falls a bless'd rain on the desolate scene,
The long-withered herbage is healthful and green,
New verdure replaces the bramble and thorn,
In dry, sterile regions fresh fountains are born.
The murmur of streamlets rejoices the ear—
Wake, heath of the desert! salvation is near.
The long-withered herbage is healthful and green,
New verdure replaces the bramble and thorn,
In dry, sterile regions fresh fountains are born.
The murmur of streamlets rejoices the ear—
Wake, heath of the desert! salvation is near.
There breathes a soft wind o'er the bones of the slain,
It hath clothed them with flesh, they are living again;
Like the host of the Lord, in bright armour they stand,
Their banners wave wide at His word of command,
The wilderness smiles on their glorious array—
Wake, heath of the desert! and gladden their way.
It hath clothed them with flesh, they are living again;
Like the host of the Lord, in bright armour they stand,
Their banners wave wide at His word of command,
The wilderness smiles on their glorious array—
Wake, heath of the desert! and gladden their way.
There sweeps a dark cloud o'er the blue of the sky,
Hoarse thunders are muttering, the tempest draws nigh,
The chariot of God rolleth on in its ire,
The mountains are humbled, the valleys aspire,
Lo, the scorner and slumberer their folly deplore—
Wake, heath of the desert! ere time be no more.
Hoarse thunders are muttering, the tempest draws nigh,
The chariot of God rolleth on in its ire,
The mountains are humbled, the valleys aspire,
Lo, the scorner and slumberer their folly deplore—
Wake, heath of the desert! ere time be no more.
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