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Frontier Ballads
LARAMIE TRAIL
A
CROSS the crests of the naked hills, Smooth-swept by the winds of God, It cleaves its way like a shaft of gray,
Close-bound by the prairie sod. It stretches flat from the sluggish Platte
To the lands of forest shade; The clean trail, the lean trail, The trail the troopers made.
It draws aside with a wary curve
From the lurking, dark ravine, It launches fair as a lance in air
O'er the raw-ribbed ridge between: With never a wait it plunges straight
Through river or reed-grown brook; The deep trail, the steep trail,
The trail the squadrons took.
They carved it well, those men of old,
Stern lords of the border war, They wrought it out with their sabres stout
And marked it with their gore. They made it stand as an iron band
Along the wild frontier; The strong trail, the long trial,
The trail of force and fear.
For the stirring note of the bugle's throat
Ye may hark to-day in vain, For the track is scarred by the gang-plow's shard
And gulfed in the growing grain. But wait to-night for the moonrise white;
Perchance ye may see them tread The lost trail, the ghost trail,
The trail of the gallant dead. |
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