| 452 here, Brother Crismon concluded to go to Tennessee. Brother Shelden and myself have been in this region ever since. Our calls have been so pressing (the gospel being entirely new in these parts) that we have only preached a few times in a place, consequently have baptised [baptized] only 5, but there are many believing, and some have expressed a full determination to be baptised [baptized], and likely will be the first opportunity.-Brother Shelden is about returning for books and more Elders; should he fail to bring any Elders down with him, I shall be compelled to abandon several places where there is a prospect of doing much good. My appointments are generally from 4 to 6 weeks ahead of me, and it seemeth superfluous to me (as I have not long to stay) to sow so much seed and not be able to bury but a small part of it.
Elders cannot come too strongly recommended to meet the customs of the South. I am as ever, your fellow believer in the bonds of the everlasting gospel.
Daniel Tyler.
Poetry.
[From the "Wabash Courier."]
To Miss Eliza R. Snow.
Lady, a hand to thee unknown Thy Favored bark may safe outride Thou doest well,-raise high the strain!
Would pluck one lowly flower, The storm, and reach thy home; Angels attune thy lyre:
For thee-wilt thou not deign to own, I like the rock, must still abide Thy songs re-echoing shall remain
And twine it in thy bower? Amid the tempest's foam. When other sounds expire.
Thy form hath never met my eye, I would 'twere else-for I can feel Lady, my path may ne'er be thine
But I have heard thy lays, When others bow the knee; In this tempestuous life,
High themes-in strains sublimely high, I cannot-nay, I would not steel Yet oft thy tones, like balm divine,
Poured forth in Zion's praise. My heart 'gainst holy sympathy. Shall calm my bosom's strife.
'Tis true, thy people are not mine, I Catch the music of thy song. Adieu!-accept the gift I bring
I know no creeds nor forms; My bosom vibrates at the sound- From Nature's wildest bower:
Thy light around me doth not shine, Heaven speed thee Lady! mid the throng Thou'dst scorn a costlier offering-
Alone I brave life's storms. Of saints thou shalt be found. Receive my simple flower.
Shawnee Bard.
[For the Times and Seasons]
Replication,-To "Shawnee Bard."
By Miss E. R. Snow.
Minstrel, I'm proud to wreath my brow Thy heart, unfetter'd by the thrall But 'tis thro' suff'ring, we must gain
With wildest, simplest flow'ers that grow; Of human creeds and human forms; Truth's acme-wisdom's high abode-
From Zion's friends.-I scorn to bow Is prompt to vibrate to the call To mingle in their holy train,
T' accept an offering from her foe. Of Truth, when robed in native charms. Who wait around the throne of God.
I prize thy gift-it is a flower Altho' the keenest pang I've known, Then gentle Bard, I welcome thee,
Of noble tint, unknown to art; Is what I've shared in others' woe; To all our joys, and sorrows too:
'Twas rear'd in nature's holiest bower- Had not this "light" around me shone, Cast in thy lot-salvation's free-
It is the product of the heart. I'd fain have left the world below. Thou'lt find Jehovah's promise true.
Since chas'd in exile, for the sake There is a higher, holier sphere, Thou speak'st of Zion: why not, then,
Of heav'n's eternal truths, I sing; And noble, kindred spirits there, Run for the prize, her God Awards?
At friendship's voice, my pulses wake Above the ills that throng us here; Then in her cause, thou'lt wield thy pen,
True friendship is a sacred thing. With whom my spirit pants to share. And number with her sweetest Bards.
'Tis not the music of my strain-
'Tis not the muse's melting art-
The poet's touching strokes are vain-
The power of Truth, has reach'd thy heart. City of Nauvoo, June 14th, 1841.
[For the Times and Seasons.]
The following lines were written during the late arrest of Pres. Joseph Smith, which was instigated through the untiring malice
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