254 
MOSS. 
Yet He that formed thee, little plant. 
And bade thee flourish in this place. 
Who sees and feels my every want, 
Can still support me by His grace. 
Oft has His arm, all strong to save, 
Protected my defenceless head, 
From ills I never could perceive, 
Nor could my feeble hand have stayed. 
• 
Then shall I still pursue my way 
O’er the wild desert’s sun-burnt soil, 
To where the ocean’s swelling spray 
Washes my longed-for, native isle. 
