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
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.
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?
Polygamy, my friend, of course! the law of love
and glory!
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!
If all the Elders of the State like you were sound
and holy,
P. Shufflebotham, guess our fate were far less
melancholy.
You air a man of blessed toil, far-shining and
discerning,
A