There Is A Bleak Desert. (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!