Saint Abe and His Seven Wives. Buchanan Robert Williams

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us, dwindled to a thread.

      With mellow verdure fringed around

      It sang along with summer sound:

      Here gliding into a green glade;

      Here darting from a nest of shade

      With sudden sparkle and quick cry,

      As glad again to meet the sky;

      Here whirling off with eager will

      And quickening tread to turn a mill;

      Then stealing from the busy place

      With duskier depths and wearier pace

      In the blue void above the beck

      Sailed with us, dwindled to a speck,

      The hen-hawk; and from pools below

      The blue-wing'd heron oft rose slow,

      And upward pass'd with measured beat

      Of wing to seek some new retreat.

      Blue was the heaven and darkly bright,

      Suffused with throbbing golden light,

      And in the burning Indian ray

      A million insects hummed at play.

      Soon, by the margin of the stream,

      We passed a driver with his team

      Bound for the City; then a hound

      Afar off made a dreamy sound;

      And suddenly the sultry track

      Left the green canyon at our back,

      And sweeping round a curve, behold!

      We came into the yellow gold

      Of perfect sunlight on the plain;

      And Joe, abruptly drawing rein,

      Said quick and sharp, shading his eyes

      With sunburnt hand, "See, theer it

      lies —

      Theer's Sodom!"

      And even as he cried,

      The mighty Valley we espied,

      Burning below us in one ray

      Of liquid light that summer day;

      And far away, 'mid peaceful gleams

      Of flocks and herds and glistering streams,

      Rose, fair as aught that fancy paints,

      The wondrous City of the Saints!

      THE CITY OF THE SAINTS

      O Saints that shine around the heavenly Seat!

      What heaven is this that opens at my feet?

      What flocks are these that thro' the golden gleam

      Stray on by freckled fields and shining stream?

      What glittering roofs and white kiosks are these,

      Up-peeping from the shade of emerald trees?

      Whose City is this that rises on the sight

      Fair and fantastic as a city of light

      Seen in the sunset? What is yonder sea

      Opening beyond the City cool and free.

      Large, deep, and luminous, looming thro' the heat.

      And lying at the darkly shadowed feet

      Of the Sierrasy which with jagged line

      Burning to amber in the light divine,

      Close in the Valley of the happy land,

      With heights as barren as a dead man's hand?

      O pilgrim, halt! O wandering heart, give praise

      Behold the City of these Latter Days!

      Here may'st thou leave thy load and be forgiven,

      And in anticipation taste of Heaven!

      AMONG THE PASTURES. – SUMMER EVENING DIALOGUE

      BISHOP PETE, BISHOP JOSS, STRANGER

BISHOP PETE

      Ah, things down here, as you observe, are getting

      more pernicious,

      And Brigham's losing all his nerve, altho' the

      fix is vicious.

      Jest as we've rear'd a prosperous place and fill'd

      our holy quivers,

      The Yankee comes with dern'd long face to give

      us all the shivers!

      And on his jaws a wicked grin prognosticates

      disaster,

      And, jest as sure as sin is sin, he means to be

      the master.

      "Pack up your traps," I hear him cry, "for here

      there's no remainin',"

      And winks with his malicious eye, and progues

      us out of Canaan.

BISHOP JOSS

      It ain't the Yankee that I fear, the neighbour

      nor the stranger —

      No, no, it's closer home, it's here, that I perceive

      the danger.

      The wheels of State has gather'd rust, the helm

      wants hands to guide it,

      Tain't from without the tiler'll bust, but 'cause

      of steam inside it;

      Yet if we went falootin' less, and made less

      noise and flurry,

      It isn't Jonathan, I guess, would hurt us in a

      hurry.

      But there's sedition east and west, and secret

      revolution,

      There's canker in the social breast, rot in the

      constitution;

      And over half of us, at least, are plunged in mad

      vexation,

      Forgetting how our race increased, our very

      creed's foundation.

      What's our religion's strength and force, its

      substance, and its story?

STRANGER

      Polygamy, my friend, of course! the law of love

      and glory!

BISHOP PETE

      Stranger, I'm with you there, indeed: – it's been

      the best of nusses;

      Polygamy is to our creed what meat and drink

      to us is.

      Destroy that notion any day, and all the rest is

      brittle,

      And Mormondom dies clean away like one in

      want of vittle.

      It's meat and drink, it's life, it's power! to

      heaven its breath doth win us!

      It warms our vitals every hour! it's Holy Ghost

      within us!

      Jest lay that notion on the shelf, and all life's

      springs are frozen!

      I've half-a-dozen wives myself, and wish I had a

      dozen!

BISHOP JOSS

      If all the Elders of the State like you were sound

      and holy,

      P.

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