(Air.--Crescentini.)

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!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.