I mention this because you know there is a commandment to me which says, "Unto you it shall be given to know the signs of the times, and the sign of the coming of the son of man." May the Lord bless you all in England and in America. And I pray that he will bless my wife, and my dear little children; God knows that I want to see them--yea, and all the saints. I have many particulars that I would like to write, but time will not allow at this time. You will hear from me again by the first opportunity, if the Arabs don't kill me. There is no post here; letters are sent by private conveyance, through friends, &c. God bless you and the cause of Zion is my last prayer. My love to brothers Snow and Adams, and all the brothers and sisters in the communion: pray for me. Yours, in great haste, ORSON HYDE. * * * * THE GATHERING OF ISRAEL. BY MRS. TINSLEY. _(From the Monthly Chronicle for April.)_ A sound hath pass'd through the nations, heard By the heart alone, when its depths are stirr'd; Mightier than that of storm-lifted seas, Than the tempest's rush amid forrest trees; Mightier than sorrow's earth-born cry, Than the shout of kings to victory; And still, where its tale hath gone, A voice to the breeze is cast, "On to Jerusalem, brothers, on! We have gain'd our home at last! "Lift up thine head, O Israel! yet From the depths of the darkness round thee set; Rejoice, for the chosen of the Lord Have listened once more to His living word; Calling them forth from the nations around, To the hallow'd rest of their father's ground: And still, as the goal is won, Let the thrilling shout be past, On to Jerusalem, brothers, on! We have gain'd our home at last! "Was the scoffer strong in the days of old, Fenced by his idols of dust-won gold, Mocking their hope, while his footsteps trod With the prophet-gather'd hosts of God? Heed him not now in the times that be, For ours is no common destiny; But, with true armour, won From the stores of the mighty past, On to Jerusalem, boldly on! We have gain'd our home at last! "Did the desert of old yield its gushing wave, For the pilgrim-fathers their thirst to lave? Did the vision of God before them stand, Guiding their steps to the promis'd land? And shall we, their children, all forget That this mighty arm is our refuge yet? No! by the hope whereon We have lean'd through the stormy past! On to Jerusalem, brothers, on! We have gain'd our home at last!