THERE blooms a plant, whose gaze, from hour to hour,
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns,
Wakes, when Creation hails his dawning power,
And most expands, when most her idol burns:
But when he seeks the bosom of the deep,
His faithful plant's reflected charms decay;
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discoloured weep,
Still fondly pining for the vanished ray.
Thou whom I love, the daystar of my sight!
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight,
Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower:
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms,
And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes,
Born but to live within thine eye-beam's power.