By Miss E. R. Snow.
Zion's noblest sons are weeping;
See her daughters bathed in tears,
Where the Patriarch is sleeping
Nature's sleep—the sleep of years.
Hushed is every note of gladness—
Every minstrel bows full low—
Every heart is tuned to sadness—
Every bosom feels the blow.Zion's children loved him dearly;
Zion was his daily care:
That his loss is felt sincerely,
Thousand weeping Saints declare;
Thousands, who have shared his blessing,
Thousands whom his service blessed,
By his faith and prayers suppressing
Evils which their lives opprest.Faith and works, most sweetly blended,
Proved his steadfast heart sincere;
And the power of God attended
His official labors here;
Long he stemmed the powers of darkness,
Like an anchor in the flood:
Like an oak amid the tempest,
Bold and fearlessly he stood.Years have witnessed his devotions,
By the love of God inspired,
When his spirit's pure emotions,
Were with holy ardor fired.
Oft he wept for suffering Zion—
All her sorrows were his own:
When she passed through grievous trials,
Her oppressions weighed him down.Now he's gone, we'd not recall him
From a paradise of bliss,
Where no evil can befall him,
To a changing world like this.
His loved name will never perish,
Nor his mem'ry crown the dust;
For the Saints of God will cherish
The remembrance of the JUST.Faith's sweet voice of consolation,
Soothes our grief: his spirit's flown,
Upward to a holier station,
Nearer the celestial throne;
There to plead the cause of Zion,
In the council of the JUST—
In the court the Saints rely on,
Pending causes to ADJUST.Though his earthly part is sleeping,
Lowly 'neath the prairie sod;
Soon the grave will yield its keeping—
Yield to life the man of God.
When the heavens and earth are shaken,
When all things shall be restored—
When the trump of God shall waken
Those that sleep in Christ the Lord.
LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF GEN. DON CARLOS SMITH
By Miss E. R. Snow.
"Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain."
The insatiate archer, Death, once more
Has bathed his shaft in human gore;
The pale-faced monarch's crimsoned bow.
Once more has laid a good man low.If tears of love could ever save
A noble victim from the grave;
If strong affection e'er had power
To rescue in the dying hour;
If kindred sympathy could hold
A jewel in its sacred fold;
If friendship could produce a charm.
The heartless tyrant to disarm;
If wide-acknowledged worth could be
A screen from mortal destiny;
If pure integrity of heart
Could baffle death's malignant dart;
If usefulness and noble zeal,
Devotedness to Zion's weal,
A conduct graced with purposed aim,
A reputation free from blame,
Could save a mortal from the tomb,
And stamp with an eternal bloom;
He never could have bowed to death,
Or yielded up his mortal breath.Ours is the sorrow, ours the loss,
For, through the triumphs of the Cross,
His noble part, by death set free,
On wings of immortality,
Tracing the steps the Savior trod,
Has reached the Paradise of God.
There he rejoins the ransomed choir,
There, there he hails his noble sire,
A patriarch of these latter-days,
Whose goodness memory loves to trace
With reverence, gratitude, and love;
He left us for the courts above.
There with the spirits of the just,
Where Zion's welfare is discussed,
Once more their efforts to combine
In Zion's cause.—And shall we mourn
For those who have been upwards borne!
And shall the Legion's sorrow flow,
As if a Chieftain were laid low,
Who threw his frail escutcheon by,
To join the Legion formed on high?
Yes, mourn.—The loss is great to earth,
A loss of high exalted worth.
THE ASSASSINATION OF JOSEPH AND HYRUM SMITH, FIRST PRESIDENTS OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS, WHO WERE MASSACRED BY A MOB IN CARTHAGE, HANCOCK COUNTY, ILL., ON JUNE 27, 1844.
By Miss E. R. Snow.