As sloops becalmed upon the deep,
Or birds upon the wing asleep,
White on the Kansas' boundless plain
The Explorer's tents are seen again;
For still undaunted to the last,
By woes to come, or perils past,
Again he dared the winter's wrath —
To trace the inevitable path
Where yet the Lightning's moaning lyre
Shall wail her bondage to the wire,
While shriek the white-maned Steeds of Fire—
That path he would have trod before
When, wandering in the mountains hoar,
Came pale Disaster for their Guide,
And brave hearts, scattered far and wide,
In snowy gulfs sank down and died.
But far from his white tents to-day,
The Leader held his lonely way.
Disease had touched the "Iron Man,"
But not the less his valor ran
High bounding, eager to return,
Where now their smouldering watch-fires burn,
And once again, in courage stern,
To charge, with his devoted band,
The horrors of the mountain-land.
The lingering voyageurs set their camp
Where, day by day, the Bison's tramp
Came booming o'er the rolling plain,
Like surges of the watery main;
And bounding over many a slope,
Flew by the graceful Antelope,
Light, slender, fleet, and beautiful,
Skimming the long waves like a gull;
While, from his covert in the wood,
Came forth by times and wondering stood
The stately Elk in all the pride
Of his huge antlers branching wide,
As first upon his startled sight
Appeared the low tents, gleaming white —
Then darting down the river, sped—
The cieft air hissing round his head,
His branchy horns, now seen, now lost,
Like leafless oak-boughs tempest-tost,
Rising and sinking on the view,
As o'er the endless reach he flew.
Along the river's banks of green
The willow hung its pendent screen,
And dark in heavier masses stood
The thick groves of the cottonwood,
While on the waves that never broke,
Hung a broad crest of giant oak.
Far o'er the plain as sight could pass,
Rolled, deep and brown, the sea of grass,
Whose lifted surge, a moment seen,
Tossed up its hidden wealth of green,
Flashing an inward transmarine,
Like ocean's billows in the light,
Just ere the long curl breaks in white.
The Prairie Sage, a matted mass,
Like brown rocks in the flowing grass,
Would whiten to the ruffling breeze,
As by the foam of breaking seas;
While, here and there, the mottled hen
Rose from the mass, and sunk agen [sic],
As you have seen the hunted brant
Leave, for a breath, his watery haunt,
And plunge below the wave, too fleet
For the quick death shot's leaden sleet.
Wide round the camp, on either hand,
The turbid Kansas, rolling grand
Stretched her two arms, as if to clasp
The broad savannah in her grasp,
And hold the voyageurs' little band,
As in the hollow of her hand.
But where is He whose beacon soul
May light them to their ocean goal?
They lingered long, and day by day,
Looked darkly up. the western way,
Looked longing down the eastern plain,
But, vainly longing, looked in vain.
Below their sunset's golden shore
A hundred length'ning leagues, and more,
Their journey lay, through perils sore;
Beyond the Prairie's weary miles,
Beyond the mountains' rocky piles,
Right through the desert, stretching blank
Along Nevada's eastern flank,
And o'er the white Sierra's crest,
To the broad waters of the west.
Already the blue air grew dun,
And crimsoned the October sun;
Already, on the steep ascents,
Had coming Winter pitched his tents,
And mustering all his savage host,
With biting gale and burning frost,
Far forth, by howling wind and rain,
Sent down his challenge to the plain.
Where waits the Leader, whose right hand
Shall lift an ensign o'er that band,
And lead them to the sunset land?
The darkened sky grows yet more dun,
Grows redder the October sun,
And down the thick air's deeper gloom,
Its setting seems the eve of Doom.
Ah, well they know, who linger there,
The meaning of that darkening air,
And what Doom's-eve its dusky robe
Winds round the sunset's burning globe!
Night, with its overarching tomb,
Shuts down, and lo! the dawn of Doom!
One lurid ring, from left to right.
Round all the east, involves the night.
A ring of fire, and fiery cloud.
That, like the Torturer's Iron Shroud,
Rolls in and in, its narrowing walls,
While down, and down, the dun roof falls!
Ha! by that closing ring they read
The red invader's fatal speed,
Bannered like Israel's desert flight
With cloud by day and fire by night!
Where rides the Leader? The swift wrath
Is rolling on his very path ;
Or, if he lingers far aback,
Sweeps out the records of their track.
Redder and redder, to the sky,
It heaves its lurid arms on high;
Darker and darker glooms the vault,
To starless horror, in the assault
Of billowy clouds, whose volumes vast
Snow down black ashes, hurtling past.
From point to point, rise towering higher,
In beacon splendor of wild Fire,
The signal torches, that betray
The vortex of a fiercer fray;
Where, lingering in its headlong flow,
To gloat above a nobler foe,
It deepens to a more intense
And terrible magnificence.
There, standing long unscathed before,
Some forest kings, all bearded hoar,
Have roused the demons of the fire,
To wilder bursts of fell desire —
Arrears of their vindictive ire.
The crackling boughs that, as it came,
Rolled upward, molten into flame,
Fall crumbling down like that red snow
That showered on Dante's world of woe.
Coiled round the giant trunks, anon,
The serpent flames run circling on,
And o'er the topmost spire have flung
The hiss of many a cloven tongue;
Till, robbed of royal robe and crown,
One here, and there, goes tottering down,
And naked, burning to the heart,
Alone, the mightiest stand apart,
Tossing their blazing arms on high,
In dumb appealing to the sky,
Like awful Martyrs ere they die !
The gallant Leader, where! oh where?
On that scorched desert of despair,
A crumpled cinder black and bare?
Or flying through the lurid gloom,
Dogged by the fire-hounds to his doom?
The anxious voyageurs gaze in vain,
Across the fiery-girdled plain,
Or listen through the wakeful camp,
To hear a fleet steed's charging tramp.
They only see the lurid belt
Drawn inward, as the broad leagues melt
Before that desolating breath —
That rustling of the wings of death!
They only hear the distant cry
Of wild-birds, wailing through the sky,
And now the long, unearthly bark
Of wolves sent trooping down the dark,
And the deep jar that shakes the plain,
Where sweep’s the Bison's hurricane.
All night a million tongues of fire
That, ever nearer, fluttered higher,
In one infernal Pentecost,
Seemed gibbering over something lost!
At length the struggling morning came,
And turned to cloud the distant flame;
While, nearer, marched its baffled ranks,
Roaring along the river-banks,
As mad to see the white camp gleam
Securely, by the guardian stream.
Ha! laughed they not with evil glee,
To see what now the voyageurs see!
Hemmed in and cheated by the flood
The red-winged fiend has cleared the wood!
And leaps from groaning tree, to earth,
Clapping his million hands in mirth,
Licking the long grass from the sod
And burning like an angry god.
Where is the dauntless Leader! where?
To teach their hands to do and dare.
And snatch them from this hour's despair?
With eager will, and nerve that strains,
They strike their tents and pile their wains,
While yet the last green rood remains;
And turn the frantic cattle towards
The shelter of the river-fords;
Then thronging by the watery marge,
Await the last decisive charge.
*Hurrah!'' How wild a yell there broke
Above the rolling flame and smoke —
The long glad whoop that well declares
The fierce joy of the Delawares.
He comes! the Leader comes at last,
His steed careering like the blast;
Right onward through the roaring fire
That leaps and writhes with baffled ire;
And close behind him, side by side,
His ponderous Leech and tawny Guide.
"Hurrah!" The welkin, reeking hot,
Rings with their shout and volleying shot,
The mingled cheer, and signal-round,
To lead their Leader, lost and found !
No gladder throng may goodly hap
Find clustered in Home's sunny lap,
When children, by the household-fire,
Greet newly the long-wandering sire,
Than theirs, amid that world of flame,
When the beloved Leader came.
Short time for greeting; with one charge
They dashed across the burning marge,
Where trampled grass, along their path,
Disarmed the fire of half its wrath;
And o'er the black unbounded plain,
They took their joyful march again.
Sequel to the Prairie Camp
