There Is A Bleak Desert. (Air.--Crescentini.)

A poem by Thomas Moore

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!