The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35 - Various

"But why not purchase the sheepskin, now that you have added the moments together?" said she.

"After all my reflection I should never have thought of that but for you. But a sheepskin! It will never do! A green velvet cushion may answer instead; and as the old one in your rocking chair seems to be somewhat worn I must even buy another for you."

"Oh! green velvet by all means!" said she. "It will correspond so well with the carpet and the new hearth rug which you promised me a month since. That was to have green for its border, you know."

I could not withstand the hint, and brought in the rug with the cushions that evening—and, to one who has ever seen my wife, I need not say that the smile that lit up her face and beamed from her eye was worth the price of a thousand.

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.