ORCHIDS. 43 
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 odors hath been shed. 
Yes! dews more sweet than ever fell 
O’er island of the blest, 
Were shaken forth from its perfumed 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’s 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. 
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 among, 
In a blest and gracious hour! 
For the lorn one rose, in heart made strong, 
By the lonely, loneliest flower! 
