[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.