Response to My “Epitaph,” by Miss Eliza R. Snow

By Omer.

"I feel the low responses roll, Thy talents ne'er will be restor'd!

Like the far echo of the night, That loss to us will leave a blank;

And whisper, softly through my soul, The flood from which thy genius drank,

"I would not be forgotten quite." Will ever move unruffled on,

In brightness sparkling 'neath the sun

• • • • And, Oh, when other vainly think

To near the limpid water's brink,

Forgotten!-No; thy pen for thee And quaff its wave, with skill, like thee,

Hath carv'd a name destined to be 'Twill stop its course-'twill backward flee,-

A monument, in future years; Or if they dip in it the Quill,

And tho' no stone thy signet bears, 'Twill shrink its tide into a rill.

Or tells thy name, 'twill matter not- Thy friends need but to speak thy name

Thy fame fill never be forgot. To tell the stranger of thy fame;

More lasting than a sculptur'd tomb And at the sound will leap to life,

Of "cold grey [gray] stone," or swelling dome, Mid worldly din, with business rife-

Will be the name thy pen hath won Like spectres [scepters] from a fun'ral pile,

For thee, to bloom when thou art gone, Or pilgrims from a long exile-

Thy poundrous [ponderous] pile of learned lore Thy sentiments of purity,

On us its flood of beauties pour; Found in thy matchless poetry.

It lifts the darken'd drapery Those friends with whom thou daily art

Of years, with musty panoply, Thy deeds are written on each heart,

From off your minds; and brightly, then, Within whose faithful, silent urn,

All gladness springs to life again. Deep gratitude, for thee, shall burn

The woes and sorrows of the saints- When thou art gone, far from our shore,

Begirt around with men's constraints- To be distress'd, on earth, no more.

Are often chronicled by thee, Unnumber'd voices now unite:-

With promptness and fidelity. Thou shalt not be "forgotten quite!"

Oh, then thy loss will be deplor'd-