Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 20, 10 June 1871, Page 18

Select Poetry.

o • THE MORMON WiDO WEE’S LAMENT. And she is dead ! And she is dead ! My multitudinous bride! No more my weary head may rest Her many forms beside. No more her sixty gentle hands Sha 1 ! fondle rest in mine; No more around her thirty waists My loving arm shall twine. For she is dead ; and from those eyes Of black, and blue, and gray, And various intermediate dyes, The light has passed away, I nd eighty little orphans’ tears Are mingled with mine own, / rd eighty hearts of tender years Are motherless and lone. Ten fevers seized her all at once, And apoplexy too; With corns, hysterics, and the mumps, And dread tic douloureux. A dozen doctors made her worse ; They physicked and they bled : And though she lived with thirty lives, No wonder she is dead! But ere she died, in countless throngs Her relatives drew nigh, And waded through each other’s tears To bid my love good-by. Yet even then she thought of me, And sought my grief to quell; And summoned me beside her beds To say a last farewell. “ Good-bye, dear John,” she feebly said ; “ I’m going soon,” said she ; “ But oh! don’t marry widow Smith, And oh ! don’t mourn for me. For widow Smith is forty fold — Too many, far, for you ; And she is artful, sly, and bold, And quite designing, too. “ And, John, don’t leave your flannels off; And don’t catch cold, my dear. Don’t die of grief, but calmly live j Your children need you here. I shall not want you over there, I’d rather be alone; I’ve had you here quite long enough : You’ll stay away, my own ?”

And then she closed her eyes in peace, And fell asleep and died ; And left me here to mourn her loss, My ten times triple bride. I know I ought to be resigned— I know my tears are rude; But when one’s loss is thirty fold, He can’t feel/ord'tude.

Oh, Mary Anne and so forth Jones, Thou wert a model wife! Thy virtues, like thyself, were too, Too many for this life. There’s no one now to mend my shirts, \ Or hear each infant’s cry ; I sew my buttons on alone, And sing the lullaby. I’ll have to marry widow Smith ; I can’t get on alone ; The children need a mother’s care— You don’t know how they’ve grown ! You left me for a better world, Your souls are free' from pain ; I must relieve my own despair, And try my luck again,,