Page:Oregon Historical Quarterly vol. 1.djvu/450

The bloom is withered on your cheek
You slowly move and lowly speak,
  And every eye is dim and dull.
Alas, it is a lonesome land
Of bitter sage and barren sand
  Under a bitter, barren sky
That never heard the robin sing,
Nor kissed the larks's exultant wing,
  Nor breathed a rose's fragrant sigh!
A weary land alas! alas!
The shadows of the vultures pass
  A spectral sign across your path;
The gaunt, gray wolf, with head askance
Throws back at you a scowling glance
  Of cringing hate and coward wrath.
And like a wraith accursed and banned
Fades out before your lifted hand;
A dim, sad land, forgot, forsworn
By all bright life that may not mourn
Acrazed with glist'ning ghosts of seas
In broideries of flower and trees,
And rivers, blue and cool, that seem
To ripple as in fevered dream-
Only to taunt the thirst, and fly
From withered lips and lurid eye.

A hundred days, a hundred nights
  The goal is farther than before,
And all the changing shades and lights
  Are wrought in fancy's woof no more.
The sun is weary overhead,
And pallid deserts round you spread
  A sorrowful eternity;
And if some grisly mountain here
Confront your march with forms of fear,
  You turn aside and pass them by.
And all are overworn the flesh
Is now a frayed and faded mesh
  That will not mask the inward flame;
There is no longer any care
To round the speech, or speak men fair,
  Or any gentle sense of shame;
The hearts of all are shifted through
  The grain drops through the windy husks
And false lights flick'ring round the true
  Are quenched at last in dews and dusk.
And some are silent, some are loud
And rage like beasts among the crowd,
And some are mild, and some are sharp
In word and deed, and snarl and carp,
  And fret the camp with petty broils;
And some of temper, sweet and bland,
Do seem to bear a magic wand
  That wins the secret of their toils-
Rare souls that waste like sandal-wood
In many a fragrant deed and mood;
And some invoke the wrath of God,