A WAND'RING maiden travel-worn,

Scorch'd by the red sun's cruelty,

Espied a little hut forlorn;

Enter'd and grateful down did lie.

From sweet repose she woke at last,

And 'mid the dirt about the ground,

Lone relic of the silent past,

A candlestick of brass she found.

She pluck'd it from the floor below,

And softly musing to herself

She rubb'd it with her rags of woe;

Then set it on the lonely shelf.

She went. But lo! the fiery King,

Now kindly smiling from above,

Shone through the dust upon the thing

Bright burnish'd by the maiden's love:

And from that wedding glance was born

A dream of golden charities,

Which first illum'd the hut forlorn,

Then flitted forth to glad the skies.