Deep and wise beyond expression

Sat the Prophet holding session,

And his Elders, round him sitting

With a gravity befitting,

Never rash and never fiery,

Chew'd the cud of each inquiry,

Weigh'd each question and discussed it.

Sought to settle and adjust it,

Till, with sudden indication

Of a gush of inspiration,

The grave Prophet from their middle

Gave the answer to their riddle,

And the lesser lights all holy,

Round the Lamp revolving slowly,

Thought, with eyes and lips asunder,

"Right, we reckon, he's a wonder!"

Whether Boyes, that blessed brother,

Should be sealed unto another,

Having, tho' a Saint most steady,

Very many wives already?

Whether it was held improper,

If a woman drank, to drop her?

Whether unto Brother Fleming

Formal praise would be beseeming,

Since from three or four potatoes

(Not much bigger than his great toes)

He'd extracted, to their wonder,

Four stone six and nothing under?

Whether Bigg be reprimanded

For his conduct underhanded.

Since he'd packed his prettiest daughter

To a heathen o'er the water?

How, now Thompson had departed,

His poor widows, broken-hearted,

Should be settled? They were seven,

Sweet as cherubs up in heaven;

Three were handsome, young, and pleasant,

And had offers on at present—

Must they take them?.. These and other

Questions proffer'd by each brother,

The great Prophet ever gracious,

Free and easy, and sagacious,

Answer'd after meditation

With sublime deliberation;

And his answers were so clever

Each one whisper'd, "Well I never!"

And the lesser lights all holy,

Round the Prophet turning slowly,

Raised their reverend heads and hoary,

Thinking, "To the Prophet, glory!

Hallelujah, veneration,

Reckon that he licks creation!"

Suddenly as they sat gleaming,

On them came an unbeseeming

Murmur, tumult, and commotion,

Like the breaking of the ocean;

And before a word was utter'd,

In rush'd one with voice that fluttered

Arms uplifted, face the colour

Of a bran-new Yankee dollar,

Like a man whose wits are addled.

Crying—"Brother Abe's skedaddled!"

Then those Elders fearful-hearted

Raised a loud cry and upstarted,

But the Prophet, never rising,

Said, "Be calm! this row's surprising!"

And as each Saint sank unsinew'd

In his arm-chair he continued:

"Goodman Jones, your cheeks are yellow,

Tell thy tale, and do not bellow!

What's the reason of your crying—

Is our brother dead!—or dying?"

As the Prophet spake, supremely

Hushing all the strife unseemly,

Sudden in the room there entered

Shapes on whom all eyes were centred—

Six sad female figures moaning,

Trembling, weeping, and intoning,

"We are widows broken-hearted—

Abraham Clewson has departed!"

While the Saints again upleaping

Joined their voices to the weeping,

For a moment the great Prophet

Trembled, and look'd dark as Tophet.

But the cloud pass'd over lightly.

"Cease!" he cried, but sniffled slightly,

"Cease this murmur and be quiet—

Dead men won't awake with riot.

Tis indeed a loss stupendous—

When will Heaven his equal send us?

Speak, then, of our brother cherish'd,

Was it fits by which he perish'd?

Or did Death come even quicker,

Thro' a bolting horse or kicker?"

At the Prophet's question scowling,

All the Wives stood moaning, howling,

Crying wildly in a fever,

"O the villain! the deceiver!"

But the oldest stepping boldly,

Curtseying to the Session coldly,

Cried in voice like cracking thunder,

"Prophet, don't you make a blunder?

Abraham Clewson isn't dying—

Hasn't died, as you're implying

No! he's not the man, my brothers,

To die decently like others!

Worse! he's from your cause revolted—

Run away! ske-daddled! bolted!"

Bolted! run away! skedaddled!

Like to men whose wits are addled,

Echoed all those Lights so holy,

Round the Prophet shining slowly

And the Prophet, undissembling,

Underneath the blow sat trembling,

While the perspiration hovered

On his forehead, and he covered

With one trembling hand his features

From the gaze of smaller creatures.

Then at last the high and gifted

Cough'd and craved, with hands uplifted,

Silence. When 'twas given duly,

"This," said he, "'s a crusher truly!

Brother Clewson fall'n from glory!

I can scarce believe your story,

O my Saints, each in his station,

Join in prayer and meditation!"

Covering up each eyelid saintly

With a finger tip, prayed faintly,

Shining in the church's centre,

Their great Prophet, Lamp, and Mentor;

And the lesser Lights all holy,

Round the Lamp revolving slowly,

Each upon his seat there sitting,

With a gravity befitting,

Bowed their reverend heads and hoary,

Saying, "To the Prophet glory!

Hallelujah, veneration!

Reckon that he licks creation!"

Lastly, when the trance was ended.

And, with face where sorrow blended

Into pity and compassion,

Shone the Light in common fashion;

Forth the Brother stept who brought them

First the news which had distraught them,

And, while stood the Widows weeping,

Gave into the Prophet's keeping

A seal'd paper, which the latter

Read, as if 'twere solemn matter—

Gravely pursing lips and nodding,

While they watch'd in dark foreboding,

Till at last, with voice that quivered,

He these woeful words delivered:—

"Sisters, calm your hearts unruly,

Tis an awful business truly;

Weeping now will save him never,

He's as good as lost for ever;

Yes, I say with grief unspoken,

Jest a pane crack'd, smash'd, and broken

In the windows of the Temple—

Crack'd's the word—so take example!

Had he left ye one and all here

On our holy help to call here,

Fled alone from every fetter,

I could comprehend it better!

Flying, not with some strange lady,

But with her he had already,

With his own seal'd Wife eloping—

It's a case of craze past hoping!

List, O Saints, each in his station.

To the idiot's explanation!"

Then, while now and then the holy

Broke the tale of melancholy

With a grunt contempt expressing,

And the widows made distressing

Murmurs of recrimination

Here and there in the narration,

The great Prophet in affliction

Read this awful Valediction!