A BED , and failing and old and gray,
On the thirtieth morn of her wedding day, —

First wife in time, but the ninth in number,
Old Betsy Perkins awoke from slumber;

And she heard the bells of Salt Lake shedding
Their melody, over her husband's wedding!

This morn he wedded the tenth young spouse,
In the cloisters of the Endowment House;

One fair enough midst the daughters of men,
To make an old man gallant again;

For he in the church was a reigning star,
One of the Twelve and a Counsellor,

And many missions had made him wise,
And deepened the lights in his handsome eyes,

While she, bedridden, with babes and cares,
Lost the rose from her cheeks and the brown from her hairs;

Lost hope and husband, and all but belief
In the church of the Saints and the might of its chief.

And the wedding bells were strong and sharp
As arrows shot from the chords of a harp.

Ah! tenderer bells had pealed for her
That wedding morn in Exeter,

When in the Parish Church she stood,
Upon the threshold of womanhood,

And trustfully, heartily, gave her all
To the strong young blacksmith, frank and tall; —

His silver watch his thrift confessed;
A nosegay smartly bloomed on his breast;

His Cornish accent, deep and queer,
Like Psalmist's melody thrilled on her ear;

Of reverent mind and serious fashion,
His love had something more than passion; —

And she felt on his broad breast, anchored fast,
The peace that understanding passed.

Now over her grey, adobe home,
The Wahsatch mountains, dome on dome,

Alone kept sentry; their snowy spears
Had changed no feature in twenty years —

The rills that babbled about her lot
Talked cold in the orchards of apricot;

And her sight grew dim in the lonely days,
Like the vale of Deseret lost in the haze.

Alone, neglected, her daughters the prize
Of solemn Bishops and " Seventies " ;

Her sons engrossed in their wives and farms
And her husband sealed in a maiden's arms,

She cried, " Oh! blessed Master above!
This morn of my wedding I perish for love!

" I am chill and blind. Let me lean once more
On the breast that received me so gladly of yore!

" If ever my heart cried its pain and hunger,
To see him look down in the eyes of one younger.

" Or uttered my crushed love's agony
To hear, oft repeated, the vow made to me,

" When happy in girlhood my bridegroom stood by me,
This prayer of my old age, my Saviour! deny me!

" Not all, but a moment of love I entreat,
To hear on my threshold the sound of his feet,

" To hide on his bosom, and die on his kiss —
Oh, Jesus! thou comforter, grant me but this! "

The light on the mountains grew dark as she spake,
And the rills of the canons that ran to the lake;

As cold as the Jordan in winter, the room,
And like snow on the fire died her hope in the gloom.

But a hand like a lover's she felt in her palm
And a voice that was healing, spoke out of the calm:

" Oh, weary and laden one, come unto Me!
Your prayer it is answered; your love you shall see. "

By the bedside, all brightness, One beautiful, stood,
But the prints on His feet and His side were like blood.

But like the ideal she had wept to embrace,
The groom of her girlhood He seemed by His face.

And she cried: " O, my lost one, for absence atoning,
You have suffered like me, you have bled without moaning!

" Oh, tarry a day, ere forever we part;
For the bliss of your coming brings death to my heart! "

Then it seemed that the cot and the mountains sank down,
And the stars thronging round, hid the lights of the town;

But her fears were assuaged on the breast of her choice,
" And the comfort, unspeakable, borne on His voice:

" Oh, soul-seeking love! to requite for thy loss,
In the sight of my mother, I wedded the cross,

And espoused in my pain, with my arms opened wide;
The old and neglected, by men cast aside! "

John Perkins, Apostle, as seldom of late,
Came up to old Betsy's and opened the gate.

He stole through the orchard, passed softly the door,
And set his great basket of gifts on the floor;

There lay on the cot, with her face to the South,
The wife of his youth with a smile round her mouth;

The smile that she wore in her freshness of charms,
When he woke in the morn and she slept in his arms;

Like the light on Twin Peaks, when the day lingers low,
It lay 'neath her white hair sand tinted their snow:

Recognition of love everlasting it spake,
When father and mother and husband forsake.

" Oh, Gentiles! " cried Perkins, and knelt by place,
" Can your wives die like ours with a smile on their face?

" O women! who yield up all heaven for a kiss!
Ye pity our old wives, who slumber like this! "