119
THE PROSPECTOR.
Lured by the golden glamor of the West,
He crossed the pathless plains and scaled the bold
Titanic forms that, rising fold on fold,
Touch heaven's blue; and, toiling, strove to wrest
From Nature's rugged and reluctant breast
The treasure she had hidden there of old—
The treasure of her hoarded yellow gold—
Seductive hope of many a hapless quest!
For this he left all other hopes behind,
And gave his manhood's prime and powers away,
Content to be forgotten of his kind—
Yet all the while within himself there lay
The unregarded treasure of the mind,
Deep-buried, priceless, wasting day by day.
