ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
2 79 
THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 
Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant 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.”— Hewitt’s Book of the Seasons. 
W HY art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 
O lonely, loneliest flower ! 
'Where the sound of song hath never passed 
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 ! 
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 unmarked must die, 
The}' 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 odors have been shed. 
“ 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. 
“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 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. 
“ O, the seed was thrown those wastes among 
In a blessed and gracious hour, 
For the lorn rose in heart made strong, 
Bj' the lonely, loneliest flower !”• 
Mrs. Hemans. 
FAIR TREE! 
Fair tree ! for thy delightful shade 
Tis just that some return be made ; 
Sure some return is due from me 
To thy cool shadows and to thee. 
When thou to birds dost shelter give, 
Thou music dost from them receive ; 
If travelers beneath thee stay 
Till storms have worn themselves away. 
That time in praising thee they spend, 
And thy protecting power commend ; 
The shepherd here from scorching freed. 
Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed, 
Whilst his loved nymph in thanks bestows 
Her flowery chaplets on her boughs. 
Lady Winchelsea. — The Tree. 
