There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary

Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary—

  What may that Desert be?

'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come

Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes

The water he pants for but sparkles and flies—

  Who may that Pilgrim be?

'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on

By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing

To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing—

  What may that Fountain be?

'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,

By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell

To point where those waters in secrecy dwell—

  Who may that Spirit be?

'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er

Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!