The Camp Fires of the Pioneers.
387
And hopes are high and hearts are true!
Hurrah! hurrah! the bold, the free—
The sudden sweep of ecstacy
That lifts the soul on wings of fire,
When fears consume and doubts expire,
And life, in one red torrent, leaps
To join the march of boundless deeps!
Hurrah! hurrah! the bold, the free—
The sudden sweep of ecstacy
That lifts the soul on wings of fire,
When fears consume and doubts expire,
And life, in one red torrent, leaps
To join the march of boundless deeps!
And now the sun is dropping down
And lights and shadows, red and brown.
Are weaving sunset's purple spell:
The teams are freed, the fires are made,
Like scarlet night flow'rs in the shade,
And pleasant groups before, between,
Are thronging in the fitful sheen—
The day is done, and "all is well."
And lights and shadows, red and brown.
Are weaving sunset's purple spell:
The teams are freed, the fires are made,
Like scarlet night flow'rs in the shade,
And pleasant groups before, between,
Are thronging in the fitful sheen—
The day is done, and "all is well."
So pass the days, so fall the nights;
A banquet of renewed delights;
The old horizons lift and pass
In magic changes like a dream,
And in the heavens' azure glass
Tomorrow's jasper arches gleam
With many a vale and mountain mass,
And many a singing, shining stream.
The past is dead and daisied now—
In shadow fades from heart and brow—
The air is incense, and the breeze
Is sweet with siren melodies,
And all the castled hills before
In blooming vistas sweep and soar
Like silver lace, the clouds are strewn
Along the distant, dreamy zone;
It is a happy, happy time,
As wayward as a poet's rhyme,
And ever as the sun goes down
The west is shut with rosy bars,
And Night puts on her golden crown
And fills the vases of the stars.
A banquet of renewed delights;
The old horizons lift and pass
In magic changes like a dream,
And in the heavens' azure glass
Tomorrow's jasper arches gleam
With many a vale and mountain mass,
And many a singing, shining stream.
The past is dead and daisied now—
In shadow fades from heart and brow—
The air is incense, and the breeze
Is sweet with siren melodies,
And all the castled hills before
In blooming vistas sweep and soar
Like silver lace, the clouds are strewn
Along the distant, dreamy zone;
It is a happy, happy time,
As wayward as a poet's rhyme,
And ever as the sun goes down
The west is shut with rosy bars,
And Night puts on her golden crown
And fills the vases of the stars.
***
A hundred nights, a hundred days,
Nor folded cloud nor silken haze
Mellow the sun's midsummer blaze.
Along a brown and barren plain
In silence drags the wasted train;
The dust starts up beneath your tread,
Like angry ashes of the dead,
To blind you with a choking cloud
And wrap you in a yellow shroud.
There are no birds to sing your joy,
You have no joy for birds to sing,
A hundred fangs your hearts destroy
A thousand troubles fret and sting.
The desert mocks you all the while
With that dry shimmer of a smile
That dazzles on a bleaching skull,
Nor folded cloud nor silken haze
Mellow the sun's midsummer blaze.
Along a brown and barren plain
In silence drags the wasted train;
The dust starts up beneath your tread,
Like angry ashes of the dead,
To blind you with a choking cloud
And wrap you in a yellow shroud.
There are no birds to sing your joy,
You have no joy for birds to sing,
A hundred fangs your hearts destroy
A thousand troubles fret and sting.
The desert mocks you all the while
With that dry shimmer of a smile
That dazzles on a bleaching skull,
