In the Camp of the bold Pathfinder
The morning fires are burning,
And bearded men, knelt round them,
The beechen spits are turning;
A savory steam is clouding
The keen air of the dawn;
Their eager nostrils snuff it in,
And white through the shaggy moustache grin
The expectant teeth of the Creole man.
And the wiry, swart Canadian,
Around the camp-fires drawn.
From the far-off western mountains
The winds come, hissing and cold,
Though over the eastern levels run
The fluid fires of a July sun,
Across the prairie, sere and dun,
Flashing in purple and gold.
Sun-rayed, the bright Helianthus
Is turning toward its God,
And its million golden blossoms
To the rising Spendor nod.
The clumps of the tough Artemisia,
With their wiry twigs intwined,
Turn white like the ocean breakers,
In the ruffling western wind,
And a healthful odor of camphor and fir,
Is loosed by the silvery leaflets’ stir,
That fills the air as a censer of myrrh
In the gorgeous fumes of Ind;
The weary voyageurs drink the balm,
And the breath they breathe is full and calm,
With the vigor it leaves behind.
Far off, in the glow of the sunrise,
In threads of a hazy blue,
The smoke of the Pawnee wigwams
Has dimmed their homeward view;
But their hearts are with their Leader,
Whom the Mountain Spirits call
To find the Path of Empire
Across their rocky wall;
And their faces are set westward
To the ever-deepening wild,
Where the serpent lurks in wood and fen,
With savage beasts and savage men,
And cataracts thunder down the glen,
Where winds their path on slippery jags,
Round cavernous pits, over toppling crags,
And down the rocks in ruin piled.
Rich “humps” of the roasted bison
Before that hungry crew,
With cans of the fragant “Java.”
Have vanished like the dew.
With the first blush of the dawning,
The young Day’s virgin glow,
They had loosed the picketed horses,
And let the oxen go
To graze by the Shallow River,
And drink of its limpid flow.
Now hark, to the voice of the Leade
They joyfully obey —
“My lads ! I have seen the promise
Of a gallant ride to-day;
Ho ! saddle the fiery hunters,
My lightning-shod PROVEAU,
And a brace for my brave riders,
We'll charge the buffalo!
Keep watch and ward, my trusty men,
For the steeds may break to the herd agen. [sic]
Or meet, anear some woody glen.
The Pawnee Loup's lasso.
"Come on! my gallant Maxwell;
I hear the sullen roar
Of a herd that darkens all the plain,
A murmur as of the windy main
Far off on a rocky shore:
Come on! my true Kit Carson;
I’ve lads more brawny and tall.
But the crack of that trusty rifle
Proclaims the victim's fall.
We three will ride together,
Hurled on that grazing herd,
Like a triple bolt of thunder
From the talons of Jove's Bird.
"Charge over the broad Nebraska,
With scarcely the fetlocks wet
And slowly up against the gale,
That else might whisper them the tale
Of a coming foe, we'll take the trail,
And spot the fairest yet!"
Right over the broad Nebraska,
With scarcely the fetlocks wet,
They dashed, and slowly up the plain,
With steeds impatient of the rein,
Drew nigh, some vantage-ground to gain
Ere to the hills the startled train
In a roaring flood-tide set.
By Heaven! it was a goodly view
That opened on their sight!
As far as eye could pierce the blue.
From all that waving plain, it drew
A terrible delight !
One boundless sea of murmuring life
Along the prairie lay,
With here and there a whirl of strife,
Of the shaggy bulls in fray —
An eddy of battle, roaring loud
Above the hum of the moving crowd,
With the white dust for its spray.
Far to the north the dusky tide
Rolled on the purple hills;
And thronging down the river-side,
It seemed the river itself they dried.
As it crept, along its channel wide.
In a thousand trickling rills.
They paused but a breathless moment
Before that grand array,
When rang the voice of the Leader
So proudly they obey —
''Hurrah! the deep tide wavers!
They have snuffed the coming foe;
Like billow on heaving billow.
Their refluent surges flow.
Far off they have caught the terror,
And louder, and more loud.
Swells up the sea-like murmur,
As toward the hills they crowd.
Now pick your game, Kit Carson!
Yon huge dun cow is mine;
Now, gallant Maxwell, pick your game;
With a ringing yell, and a rush like flame,
We'll break the roaring line!"
Untouched by the goading rowels,
With only the rein let go,
Like the plunge of a swooping eagle
Flew fiery-eyed Proveau.
Kit Carson's snorting charger
Rained down his hoofs like hail;
But the steed of gallant Maxwell
Blazed by like a comet's tail!
For a moment, as an army
Charged fiercely front and flank,
The dense mass reeled and wavered,
From surging rank to rank;
In a moment, gulfing inward,
They bared a narrow pass.
Where, as the bold pursuers rushed,
The shaggy brutes, together crushed,
Rolled bellowing on the grass —
Brute over brute piled on the plain,
As away, like a desert hurricane,
Swept all the roaring mass!
A rumbling earthquake shook the ground,
Where the cloudy path of their multitudes wound,
And the clash of their horns was like the sound
Of a battle-field, when swords rebound
From bucklers and helms of brass.
Upright for a single moment,
The Leader's figure proud,
Was seen, with his leveled rifle,
In a dusty thunder-cloud.
The fire of his deadly rifle
Rang down the wild retreat,
And the dun cow, fierce and shaggy,
Lay lifeless at his feet.
But away like a hungry tiger —
His nostrils snorting flame,
And his eyeballs fiercely flashing—
That Hunter charged the game.
The wild bulls turned to gore him,
With their dust and anger blind,
But lightly over them with a bound,
He bore his rider, safe and sound,
Or eagerly on, like a swift bloodhound,
For a better prey he swept away,
And left them far behind.
Oh, a gallant steed was fleet Proveau,
Who knew his Rider as heroes know
The Demigods they meet below —
By a sympathy of mind !
At home in the thickest perils,
The dauntless Mountaineer,
With a hand that never trembled
From the fiery flask, nor fear,
Sent death to the plunging monsters
Along his wild career,
Till, unaware, from either hand,
Rushed, from the cloud-enveloped band,
A fierce twain, terrible and grand.
Full on his front and rear!
Reeled the wild charger, vaulting high,
With something like a human cry
When terror blends with agony;
Shunning the deadly thrust,
Aside he plunged from either wound,
And horse and rider, with one wild bound,
Went headlong to the dust;
While dashing together as rock to rock,
The mad brutes met with a stunning shock,
And rolled in death on the gory sod,
A double prize, by the gift of God,
To the periled rider just.
Up rose the Guide from his stirrup freed,
Up rose, with a leap, his treacherous steed,
And dashed away, with a frighted speed.
Where the choking cloud and the sullen roar
Were all that told, in a moment more,
His path, and theirs who had gone before.
"By Heaven!" cried Maxwell, leaping
From his game to his courser fleet,
"I'll bring you a steed, Kit Carson,
You stand but ill on feet!"
Away, away, like a shooting star,
He flashed and dashed, with a "Hip! hurrah!"
Right after the trembling thunder-jar,
A moment seen, then, lost, afar
In the dust-cloud rolling black;
And ere the first-drawn bison's hide
In the blazing sun grew crisp and dried,
Slowly over the brown hill-side,
By the glittering rein to his saddle tied,
He brought the fugitive back.
In the Camp of the bold Pathfinder
Was food enough that day.
And the voyageurs felt their Leader
A Power in their perilous way.
Where danger itself was a pastime,
And the battle of Life a play !
- - - - - - - -
We have called him for our Leader
In the charge on a fiercer foe.
That forth to the shallow Nebraska
Rolls on, with a darker flow,
Than ever rolled the sea-like swell
Of the herded buffalo!
On the bounding pulse of a People's heart.
We’ll bear him to his nobler part,
As on his proud PROVEAU;
And the charging cry of our host shall be
One long, loud shout, from sea to sea,
“FREE MEN, FREMONT and VICTORY!
Charge! And God speed it so!”
The Nebraska Bison Hunt