Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower;
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd
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 unmark'd must die,
They have had a glorious dower.
" Though it blooms afar from the minstrel's way,
And the paths where lovers tread;
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day,
By its odours 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,
And 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 bless'd and gracious hour,
For the lorn one rose in heart made strong,
By the lonely, loneliest flower !"
~Mrs. Hemans
