Old Jacob Peterson Is Dead

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Sealed by Moroni, sealed with scalding tears That spring from a heart torn open-wide with grief Grief for his brethren now in Paradise, Waiting in fearful agony the eye of God. O Man, a fearful, burning hell is thine indeed, If, after drinking deep the nectar of the spheres, Thou turnest to the wine of luxury and lust and war Lurid phantoms, dreams that perish, wild deUriums That beckon to the abyss of despair. O Man, debased, thy wine so sweet to quaff, Becomes as wormwood to thy dry, parched lips. — The fire burns low the embers slowly die The sun-god, climbing out of orient seas, Proclaims the doom of Night, the birth of Day. From out the cavern stealthy steals the scribe, Bearing the precious records of his race. His eyes free scan the landscape, and his steps Turn toward the sturdy cavity of stone. Therein are placed the sacred plates of gold, The sword of Laban and the shield, The Thummim of the Seers, a gift from God, There to repose until Jehovah's voice Shall call them forth.

Moroni's task is done. The plates are now secure; A cloud is lifted from his weary countenance. He kneels in fervent prayer, then draws his robe About him. And with hasty step He leaves Cumorah by a winding path. And in a moment more the Solitary Scribe is lost to view Lost in the forest's unfrequented depths, There, till the summons Home shall come, He roams the melancholy earth alone with God. Frank C. Steele Chattanooga, Tenn.

Old Jacob Petersen is Dead

[Dr. Charles L. Olsen, of Salt Lake City, Utah, while in Denmark on a mission, some twenty-five years ago, copied the following verses from an old number of the Millennial Star. "Mormondom" has many heroes like "Old Jacob."—Editors.] As idly down the street I went, I saw some wagons driven slow, And turning to an urchin, said: "Say, boy, where do these wagons go?" He lightly tossed his cap in air, And loud and just as lightly said: "They're going to the graveyard, sir; Old Jacob Petersen is dead."

I fancied as the mourners passed Their eyes reproachfully were bent; And as a mute apology I turned and followed where they went.

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The meager crowd bareheaded stood; The plain, white coffin found the earth; While one, uncouth in word and dress Rehearsed his parentage and birth:

"Born in far Norway's frozen clime, The child of bitterest poverty, He learned that hands were made to toil, Ere scarce he left his mother's knee. He ate with thankfulness his crust ('Twas often but a barley cake.) He owed no debt; his parents saved And sacrificed for others' sake. "And uncomplainingly he toiled, Nor ever thought to change his lot; But living as his father lived, — Die as his father in his cot. Content where summer seldom came, With naught but poverty in view, He married one who loved him well, A woman good, and sweet, and true. — "The Gospel came sun shone at last; His humble heart responsive beat; The true sheep know the shepherd's voice;' His barley crust was manna sweet. His few friends wept and shook their heads, And bade him farewell mournfully, When Zionward he set his face, To labor for eternity.

"He dared the dangers of the deep, And while his heait with anguish bled, He saw his only daughter die, The form consigned to ocean's bed. One cheered him on his chosen road, The joy and comfort of his life; And 'midst his grief he thanked his Cod For that one perfect gift—his wife. "A stranger in a foreign land, He yet pressed onward to the goal; Both soul and body seemed sustained By that new light that filled his soul. And when his wife to death succumbed, A smitten reed, bowed to the sod; Yet comfort found in her last words: 'Press onward in the work of God.'

"He lived to reach this favored land, And Brigham Young he lived to hear; A sermon he in English preached, Translated to his 'Danish' ear. He lived to walk in sacred halls; A temple's holy threshold trod; Drank deeply of a lasting peace, And learned the changeless will of God.