It measures the boundless distance,
Led by wild ways that run
Hither and thither in chase of the Winds
That worship the Northern Sun:
The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun.
In the dip of the far horizon
Trembles the Morning Star;
To the heights of the fathomless ether
Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar;
The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar.
No sound in that void of Silence
Save call of bird to its mate,
Or cry of the lone coyote
At the bars of hunger's gate;
And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate.
The Trail hath a storied splendor:
Tepee and Indian Mound;
Where the glory of God is chanted
By no sacrilegious sound;
Where the dumb brute bays HIS praise through Nights profound!
Here the haunts of men are bounden
By the links of Custom's chain;
There you find embosomed freedom
In the heart's exquisite pain,
And thereafter will be heard the cry, “O, give me the wilds again!”
The Trail hath no languorous longing;
It leads to no Lotus land;
On its way dead Hopes come thronging
To take you by the hand;
He who treads the Trail undaunted, thereafter shall command!