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. G. 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. SONG OF THE PIRATE'S WIFE, ON HER PASSAGE FROM CORUNNA TO NEW YORK. Air--"Meeting of the Waters." "The wife of the Spanish Pirate, Bernardo de Soto, hearing in Corunna, in Spain, of the trial and condemnation of her husband in Boston, immediately freighted a small schooner, and leaving her three children, sailed for Boston. She visited Washington to intercede for her husband, returned to New York, and hastened to Boston to afford him the solace of her presence." Adieu to the shores of my dear native clime, The land of the olive and pale-tinted lime! Your bright orange tree, and your clustering vine, No pleasure can yield to this sad soul of mine. I go from the land of my dear cottage-home-- My babes, they are there--from my babes I must roam; A mother's fond heart, it hath bid them adieu, And fatherless children left motherless too. That cheek, from my own I have torn it away, Unlock'd the dear arms that would force me to stay; All eloquent, vainly, the big tears did flow, The heart of the wife bade the mother to go. Blow breezes! blow breezes! fill kindly the sail-- My panting heart leaps at the voice of the gale; Swift onward! swift onward! his doom may be seal'd, Unheard my petition, my love unreveal'd.