A Sketch.
There is a land—a lonely place—1
No tree or flower is there to grace2
Its flat and bare and parched face ;3
And evermore4
The dark’ning shadows briskly chase5
Each other o’er.6
The glist‘ning streams that were, are not,7
Their moist’ning tendency forgot,8
And all around is almost rot9
For lack of rain10
To make that dry and hardened spot11
So fresh again.12
The burning sun lays bare the heath,13
And though no trees a shade bequeath,14
A hidden stream runs clear beneath15
That hard dry crust—16
And some day bursting from its sheath,17
Will lay the dust.18
That gentle streamlet running clear—19
Unseen, will run until ’tis near20
Another, richer, deeper sphere,21
And mingling there,22
O’erflow the barren place and sear,23
And make it fair.24
A heart though young and ofttimes gay,25
For lack of Love, may fade away ;26
Its own pure tide is left to stray,27
Then nearly gone,28
May meet a kindred heart one day,29
And join in one.30