What a flood of sorrow, what an ocean of joy Has crossed my path, as man and boy! O, could I tell the changes I've seen, 'Twould equal in romance Alladin's dream. It would quicken our pulse with a warm desire To review the deeds of our noble sires; For progress and growth in the realms of thought, Are often with pain and sorrow bought; And the richest gifts that crown our lives, Come as a reward for a heart's sacrifice. I remember when seven summers had fled, Of kneeling beside a sick mother's bed; With her motherly hand on my curly head, She told me that Joseph and Hyrum were dead. How deeply we loved the patriarch and seer Was shown by the thousands who wept at their bier; The Saints at Nauvoo were crushed by the blow-- 'Twas my first comprehension of national woe, For Israel that day lost a heavenly treasure, A shepherd who fed them with wisdom unmeasured. I remember full well the Prophet's sweet smile As he patted my head, I a weak, sickly child, And said to my father, "Fear not, Brother Young, For a long life awaits this dear little son. He will grow up to manhood, the priesthood he'll hold, And carry the gospel to nations untold." Those kind words of promise illumined my soul; The light is still with me, although I am old. The next I remember was the ice-flowing tide Of the great Mississippi, its flood a mile wide, The shout of the boatmen, the splash of their oars, As they pushed the huge scow from the river's east shore. They were giants in stature, and fearless and bold, They shrunk not in danger, nor shivered in cold There was tall Thomas Grover, and brave Warren Snow, And three other heroes whose names I don't know. With skill and endurance they stemmed the wild tide, And landed their freight on the Iowa side. Say, what was the freight that faced ice, wind, and snow? 'Twas the Saints who were fleeing from homes in Nauvoo. I remember the camp fires that blazed high in the woods, While one side was freezing, one scorched where we stood; And the anguish of childbirth, when the mother's strength failed, Was drowned by the fury of the tempest and hail. 'Twas a cruel, bitter struggle with cold and with rain: The route of our journey was marked with our slain; With zeal, faith, and courage, ne'er excelled by man, The journey to Utah our fathers began. I walked with the children, and helped drive the sheep, Hatless and shoeless, with sore bleeding feet. The wonderful journey was ended at last-- Forgotten in pleasures, were the cold wintry blasts; For the sunshine of Utah brought strength, peace, and health, With a promise, if faithful, of the blessings of wealth; The words of the Prophet in part were fulfilled; Israel had fled to the mountains, an empire to build. Sixteen summers had passed, and I had grown tall-- Five feet, lacking two inches, as I leaned 'gainst the wall; And I weighed ninety-six pounds, on Father Neff's scales In the old grist mill, overlooking our vales.