O, who that has seen o'er the wide spreading plain, And read o'er the last scenes of woe? Four-and-twenty with Mormon were left to behold Their nation lie mould'ring below. The Nephites destroyed, the Lamanites dwelt For ages in sorrow unknown, Generations have passed till the Gentiles at last, Have divided their lands as their own. O, who that has seen o'er the wide spreading plain, The Lamanites wander forlorn, While the Gentiles in pride and oppression divide The land they could once call their own; And who that believes does not long for the hour When sin and oppression shall cease, And truth, like the rainbow, display through the shower, That bright written promise of peace? O, thou sore afflicted and sorrowful race, The days of thy sorrow shall end! The Lord has pronounced you a remnant of His, Descended from Abra'm His friend. Thy stones with fair colors most glorious shall stand. And sapphires all shining around, Thy windows of agates, in this glorious land, And thy gates with carbuncles abound. With songs of rejoicing to Zion return, And sorrow and sighing shall flee, The powers of heaven among you come down, And Christ in the centre will be. And then all the watchmen shall see eye to eye, When the Lord shall bring Zion again, The wolf and the kid down together shall lie, And the lion shall dwell with the lamb. The earth shall be filled with the knowledge of God, And nothing shall hurt nor destroy, And these are the tidings we have to proclaim, Glad tidings abounding with joy. After Elder Pratt the most prolific of the early poets in the Church, and one who perhaps caught most truly the genius of the work and reduced it to poetic expression, was W. W. Phelps. He contributes the following inspired by the Book of Mormon. O, stop and tell me, Red Man, Who are you, why you roam, And how you get your living; Have you no God, no home? With stature straight and portly, And decked in native pride, With feathers, paints and brooches, He willingly replied: "I once was pleasant Ephraim, When Jacob for me prayed, But O, how blessings vanish, When man from God has strayed! Before your nation knew us, Some thousand moons ago, Our fathers fell in darkness, And wandered to and fro. And long they've lived by hunting Instead of work and arts, And so our race has dwindled To idle Indian hearts. Yet hope within us lingers, As if the Spirit spoke, He'll come for your redemption, And break your Gentile yoke, And all your captive brothers, From every clime shall come, And quit their savage customs, To live with God at home. Then joy will fill our bosoms, And blessings crown our days, To live in pure religion, And sing our Maker's praise."