The Gold-Gated West/The Campfires of the Pioneers
For other versions of this work, see The Campfires of the Pioneers.
THE CAMPFIRES OF THE PIONEERS
Vincere est vivere!
Striking at ease his epic lyre, The laurelled Mantuan has sung Beleaguered Troy's illustrious pyre—The daring sail Æneas flung To wayward gales, the voyage long That tracked the silver waves of song Until the worn and weary oar Has kissed the far Lavinian shore; The Argo's classic pennon streams Along a fairer sea of dreams, The Mayflower now has furled her wings, And restfully at anchor swings—Columbia chants to columned seas The triumph of the Genoese—And yet, stout hearts, no fitting meed Of panegyric crowns your deed, From which a stately empire springs. The minions of a perfumed age Already crowd upon the stage,—The massive manhood of the past In many a graceful mould is cast; And yet with calm and kindly eyes You view the feast for others spread, And hail the blue benignant skies Resigned and grandly comforted. It was for this you broke the way Before the sunset gates of Day—For this, with God-like faith endued, You scaled the mystic crags of Fate, And with resounding labors hewed The Doric pillars of the state.
There is no task for you to do—Your tents are furled, the bugle blown—But yet another day, and you Will live in clustered fame alone. The fir will chant a song of rue, The pine will drop a wreath, maybe, And o'er the dim Cascades the stars Will nightly roll their gleaming cars You followed well from sea to sea. Before your scarred battalions wheel Into the mystic realm of shade, And on your grizzled brows the seal Of mystery is softly laid, Once more around your old campfires, That smoulder like fulfilled desires, Rehearse the story of your toil—Set forth the hero crowned with spoil—The glimmer of triumphant steel, Beneath the garland and the braid.
O further than the legiona bora The eagles of imperial Rome, Three thousand miles, a weary march, You followed Hesper's golden torch, Until it stooped on this green shore And lit the rosy fires of home. The sad and solemn morn you turned And quenched the sacred flames that burned On hearths endeared for years and years; It seemed your very souls grew dark With those sweet fires, the latest spark Was drowned in bitter, bitter tears. A softer, sweeter sunlight wrapt The forms of all familiar things, And as each chord of feeling snapped Another angel furled its wings: The lights and shadows in the lane, The oak beside the foot-worn stile, Whose wheeling shade a weary while Had told the hours of joy and pain—The vine that clambered o'er the door And many a purple cluster bore—The vestal flowers of household love—The sloping roof that wore the stain Of summer sun and winter rain, And smoky chimney tops above—The beauty of the orchard trees, Bedecked with blossoms, glad with bees—The brook that all the livelong day Had many things to sing and say—All these upon your vision dwell And weave the sorrow of farewell. And now the last good-bye is said—Good-bye! the living and the dead In those sad words together speak, And all the chosen ways are bleak!
Forward! The cracking lashes send A thrill of action down the train, Their brawny necks the oxen bend With creaking yoke and clanking chain; The horsemen gallop down the line, And swerve around the lowing kine That straggle loosely on the plain, And lift glad hands to babes that laugh, And dash the buttercups like chaff. Hurrah! the skies are jewel blue; In softest green and braided gold The robes of April are unrolled, And hopes are high and hearts are true! Hurrah! Hurrah! The bold, the free! The sudden sweep of ecstasy That lifts the soul on wings of fire When fears consume and doubts expire And life in one swift torrent speeds To the great tide of stirring deeds.
And now the sun is dropping down, The 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 heaven's azure glass To-morrow's jasper arches gleam With many a vale and mountain mass And many a singing, shining stream. The past is dead and daisied now—Its 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, When Night puts on her ebon crown And lights the watch fires of the stars.
***
A hundred nights, a hundred days; Nor folded cloud nor silken haze Mellow the sun's midsummer blaze. Along the 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;—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 lark's exultant wing, Nor breathed the 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, And crazed with glistening ghost of seas In broideries of flowers and trees, And rivers, blue and cool, that seem To ripple as in fevered dream Only to taunt the thirst and fly From withered lip and lurid eye. A hundred days, a hundred nights,—The goal is further 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 grizzly mountains here Confront your march with forms of fear, You turn aside and pass them by. And all are over-worn—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 sifted through—The grain drops through the windy husks, And false lights flickering round the true Are quenched at last in dews and dusks. 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 ; While 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-woodIn many a fragrant deed and mood; And some invoke the wrath of God, Or feign to kiss the scourging rod,—And some, maybe with better prayers, Stand up in all their griefs and cares And clench their teeth, and do and die, Without a whine, a curse or cry. And so the dust and grit and stain Of travel wears into the grain, And so the hearts and souls of men Were darkly tried and tested then, So that in happy after years, When rainbows gild remembered tears, Should any friend enquire of you If such or such an one you knew—I hear the answer, terse and grim, "Ah, yes, I crossed the plains with him!
And lo! a moaning phantom stands To greet you in the lonely lands, Among all lesser shadows dight, With spoils of death; his meagre hands Salute you as you pass, and claim The sacrifice that feeds his flame. The march has broken into flight, And wreck and ruins strew the road The flaming phantom has bestowed; The ox lies gasping in his yoke, Beside the wagon that he drew,—Where the forsaken campfires smoke To hopeless skies of tawny blue; And here are straight, still mounds that mark The flight of life's delusive spark—The sombre points of pause that lie So thick in human destiny. And O, so dark on this bleak page Of drifting sand and dreary sage! The sultry levels of the day The night with weird enchantment fills, And frowning forests stretch away Along the slopes of shadow hills; And in the solemn stillness breaks The wild wolf-music of the plain, As if a deeper sorrow wakes The dreary dead in that refrain That swells and gathers like a wail Of woe from Pluto's ebon pale, And sinks in pulseless calm again.
A change at last! An opal mist Along the faint horizon's rim Is banked against the amethyst Of summer's sky,—so far, so dim, You shade your eyes and gaze and gaze Until there wavers into sight A swinging, swaying strand of white, And then the sapphire walls and towers That break the light in quivering showers And float and fade in diamond haze— It is the mountains! Grand and calm As God upon his awful throne, They build you strength and breathe you balm, For all their templed might of stone Is one eternal sculptured psalm! And now your western course is led Where grassy pampas spread and spread, The pastures of the buffalo; And like the sudden lash of foam When tropic tempests smite the sea, And masts are stripped to ward the blow, A ragged whirl of dust descried Upon the prairie's sloping side Portends a storm as swift and free,—And lo, the herds, they come! they come! A sweeping thundercloud of life Loud as Niagara, and grand As they who rode with plume and brand On Waterloo's red slope of strife; Wild as the rush of tidal waves That roar among their crags and caves, The trampling bison hurl along, A black and bounding, fiery mass That withers, as with flame, the grass—O! terrible—ten thousand strong! Meanwhile the dusty teams are stopped, The wagon tongues are deftly propped, And drivers by their oxen stand And soothe them with soft speech and hand, But, yet, with horn tossed free, and eyes Ablaze with purple depths of ire, A thousand servile years expire And flashes of old nature rise, As if a sudden spirit woke That would not brook the chain and yoke,—And then, the stormy pageant passed, They bow their calloused necks at last, And with a heavy stride and slow The dream of liberty forego. Alas! it is a land of shades And mystic visions, swift alarms; The fretted spirit flames and fades With changing calls to prayers or arms.
***
The day is dying, and the sun Hangs like a jewel rich with fire In the deep West of your desire. And o'er the wide plateau is rolled A surge of crinkled sunset gold, Bordered with shadows gray and dun,—A horseman, with loose waving hair, Black as the blackness of despair, Wheels into sight and gives you heed, And on his haunches reins his steed, All quivering like a river reed, And sits him like a statue there, Transfigured in the sunset sea—A bronze, bare sphinx of mystery! A moment thus, in wonder lost, His eagle plumes all backward tossed, Then wheels again, as swift as wind, The wild hair floating free behind, And sunset's crinkled surges pour Along an empty waste once more. But you, since that fantastic shade Across your desert path has played, Distrust the very ground you tread, And shiver with a nameless dread Till stars drop crimson and the sky Is wan with heartless treachery.
***
For many days a form of white Has flashed and faded in your sight In fleeting glimpses as of wings; Our God's bright palm in beckonings. It is a secret nursed of each—You dare not give the thought in speech, So weirdly solemn is the sign, As if upon the western stairs The angel of a thousand prayers Were come with sacned bread and wine. Again the still, enchanted hour Of sunset burns in crimson flower, And purple-hearted shadows sleep Like clustered pansies, warm and deep. Eastward of wreathen crag and wall The trail that wound and wound all day In many a dark and devious way At last with one swift curve ascends A rolling plain, that breaks and bends Westward, till rosy curtains fall O'er mountains massed and magical. Resplendent as a pearly tent, Upon the fir-fringed battlement, Serene in sunset gold and rose, A pyramid of splendor glows, So vast and calm and bright, your dream Is dust and ashes in its gleam. A maiden speaks—"He led us far—It is the golden western star!" And then a youth—"Our goal is won,— 'Tis the pavilion of the sun!" A gray sage then, in undertone, "It must be Hood, so grand and lone—The shining citadel and throne Of Terminus, that Roman god, Who marked the line the legions trod, And set the limits of the world, Where Caesar's battle flags were furled! O, for the dark-eyed prophetess Who sang in Sinai's wilderness The gilded chariots' overthrow, To lead for us the cymballed song To Him, the Merciful, the Strong, Who dashed the brimming cup of woe And was our cloud and flame so long!" Forward! The crested mountains kneel To patient toils of fire and steel—A way is hewn, and you emerge Upon the Cascades' frozen verge, And far beneath you and away To ocean's shining fringe of foam And summer veil of floating spray, Behold the land of your emprise, Serene as tender twilight skies When day is swooning into gloam! It is the morning twilight now That wraps the valley's misted brow; The bourgeoning of blooming dawn—The reveille of Oregon! How brightly on your vision first The pictured vales and woodlands burst,—The lakelets set like twinkling gems Along the prairie's pleated hems,—The silver brooks and rippled sweeps Of loit'ring rivers here and there, And many a waterfall that leaps In rainbow garlands through the air,— The skirted maples and the groves Of oak, the mild home-spirit loves,— Enamelled plains and crenelled hills And tangled skeins of brooks and rills, Imperial forest of the fir, All redolent of musk and myrrh, That fling and furl their banners old, And still their gloomy secret hold As Time his cloudy censer fills.
***
Where the foothills are wooing the meadow In the dimples that dally and pass, And the oak swings an indolent shadow On the daisies that dial the grass,— In the crescents of rivers, in hollows Red-lipped in the strawberry time, And the slope where the forest path follows A brooklet's melodious rhyme, On the sun-rippled knolls and the prairies, Beloved of the wandering kine, In the skirts of the woodlands that fairies Embroider with rose and with vine, There are tents, and the smoke that is curling Above in the beautiful dome Like a guardian spirit is furling Soft wings o'er the temple of home.
And the axe of the woodman is ringing All day in sylvestrian halls, Where the chipmunk is playfully springing And the bluejay discordantly calls; As the red chips are fitfully flying On the asters that sprinkle the moss; Where the beauty of summer is dying, And the sun lances glimmer across; There's a bird that is spectrally knocking On a pine that is withered and bare, For the fir-top is trembling and rocking In the blue of the clear upper air; There's a crackling of fibre, the crashing Of a century crushed at a blow, While the fir trees are wringing and lashing Their hands in a frenzy of woe.
A pheasant whirs up from the thicket In the hush that comes after the fall, When the squirrel retires to his wicket, And the blue-bird renounces his call, And the panther is crouched by the boulder In the gloom of the canyon anear, As the brown bear looks over his shoulder, And the buck blows a signal of fear; But there's never a pause in your duty, For the echoing axe is not still As you waste the green temples of beauty For the puncheons and rafter and sill That are wrought in the cabin so lowly That the trees may clasp hands overhead, But the heart calls it home, and the holy Love-light on its hearthstone is shed.
It is staunch and rough-hewn, and the ceiling Of the fragrant red cedar is made, With an edging of silver revealing A picture of sunlight and shade. And the Word has its place, not a trifle, Obscured in a pageant of books; And above the broad mantle your rifle Is hung on accessible hooks. O, the freshness of Hope and of Fancy That illumine the home and the heart With the grace of a bright necromancy That excels the adorning of art! And you rise and look forth, and the glory Of Hood is before you again, And the sun weaves a gold-threaded story In the purple of mountain and glen. Stand up, and look out of the mansion That adorns the old scene of the past, On the fruitage of hope—the expansion Of the future your vigils forecast! While the shadows of Hood have been wheeling Away from the face of the sun, What a glamour of change has been stealing O'er the fields that you painfully won! Like the castles that fade at cock-crowing The enchantments arise and advance Where the cities of commerce are glowing Like pearls in the braid of Romance; For a state, in her shimmering armor, Like Pallas Athena has come, And her aegis is fringed with the wanner Refulgence that circles our home.
As for you, you are gray, and the thunder Of the battle has smitten each brow Where the freshness of youth was turned under By Time's immemorial plow; But the pictures of Memory linger Like the shadows that turn to the east, And will point with a tremulous finger To the things that have perished and ceased; For the trail and the foot-log have vanished, The canoe is a song and a tale, And the flickering church-spire has banished The uncanny redman from the vale; The cayuse is no longer in fashion, He is gone with a flutter of heels, And the old wars are dead, and their passion In the crystal of culture congeals; And the wavering flare of the pitchlight, That illumines your banquets no more, Will return, like a wandering witchlight, And encrimson the fancies of yore—When you danced the "Old Arkansas" gaily In brogans that had followed the bear, And quaffed the delight of Castaly From the fiddle that wailed like despair; And so lightly you wrought with the hammer, And so truly with axe and with plow, And you blazed your own trails through the grammar, As the record must fairly allow; But you builded a state in whose arches Shall be carven the deed and the name, And posterity lengthen its marches In the glow of your honor and fame!