My Epitaph

By Miss Eliza R. Snow.

'Tis not the tribute of a sigh In friendship's memory let me live,

From sorrow's bleeding bosom drawn; I know no earthly wish beside;

Nor tears that flow from pity's eye, I ask no more; yet, oh, forgive

To weep for me when I am gone; This impulse of instinctive pride.

No costly balm, no rich perfume, The silent pulse of memory,

No vain sepulchral rite I claim; That beats to the unutter'd tone

No mournful knell, no marble tomb, Of tenderness, is more to me

Nor sculptur'd stone to tell name. Than the insignia of a stone:

It is a holier tithe I crave For friendship holds a secret cord,

Than time-proof, monumental piers, That with the fibres [fibers] of my heart,

Than roses planted on my grave, Entwines so deep so close 'tis hard

Or willows drip'd in dewy tears. For death's dissecting hand to part!

The garlands of hypocrisy I feel the low responses roll,

May be equip'd with many a gem; Like the far echo of the night,

I prize the heart's sincerity And whisper, softly through my soul,

Before a princely diadem. "I would not be forgotten quite."

The Times and Seasons,

Is Edited by John Taylor, printed and published about the first and fifteenth of every month, on the corner of Water and Bain Streets, Nauvoo, Hancock County, Illinois, by John Taylor and Wilford Woodruff,

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