For the Southern Literary Messenger.
DESART GRIEF.
BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.
| There are no dews in desart lands— No showers refresh their skies; But oft the winds sweep o'er their sands, And breathe their voiceless sighs Thro' depths profound, where naught hath been To glad the ever wearied scene. So weeps the soul in ripened years, Mid life's turmoil and grief; When the last fount of balmy tears Hath lent its last relief,— And when the lips oft pour their sighs O'er blighted hopes and broken ties. O! in this world so full of tears, There is not one for me— The fountain of my early years, Of heavenly drops so free, Hath ceased to pour its natal tide When cares oppress, or ills abide. Where is the balm to Israel blest, That Gilead gave of yore? Can it not sooth the heart to rest As it hath done before? Methinks I hear a voice doth say— Pray thou, in fervent meekness pray. Tis done—that prayer was not in vain; Its incense reached to heaven; And sweet's the joy that springs again In chaste emotion given. Flow on, flow on, ye balmy tears, As ye have flow'd in other years. So falls the dew on desart sands, And showers refresh their skies, When from the founts of distant lands Some grateful mist may rise, And pour its fresh'ning breath at last On all the melancholy waste. |
Elfin Moor, Va. September 1835.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.