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Might not such incense please thee, Lord of love?
Thou, who with bounteous hand dost deign to show
Some foretaste of thy Paradise above,
To cheer the way-worn pilgrim here below?
Bidd'st thou mid parching sands the floweret meek
Strike its frail root and raise its tinted cheek,
And the slight pine defy the arctic snow,
That e'en the skeptic's frozen eye may see
On Nature's beauteous page what lines she writes of Thee?
Thou, who with bounteous hand dost deign to show
Some foretaste of thy Paradise above,
To cheer the way-worn pilgrim here below?
Bidd'st thou mid parching sands the floweret meek
Strike its frail root and raise its tinted cheek,
And the slight pine defy the arctic snow,
That e'en the skeptic's frozen eye may see
On Nature's beauteous page what lines she writes of Thee?
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