And why did these same sunburnt men Let Morgan gain the plain, and then Pursue him to the utter sea? You ask me here impatiently.
And I as pertly must reply, My task is but to tell a tale, To give a wide sail to the gale, To paint the boundless plain, the sky;
To rhyme, nor give a reason why. Mostlike they sought his gold alone, And fear'd to make their quarrel known Lest it should keep its secret bed;
Mostlike they thought to best prevail And conquer with united hands Alone upon the lonesome sands; Mostlike they had as much to dread;
Mostlike — but I must tell my tale. And Morgan, ever looking back, Push'd on, push'd up his mountain track, Past camp, past train, past caravan,
Past flying beast, past failing man, Past brave men battling with a foe That circled them with lance and bow And feather'd arrows all a-wing;
Till months unmeasured came and ran The calendar with him, as though Old Time had lost all reckoning; Then passed for aye the creaking trains,
And pioneers that named the plains. Those brave old bricks of Forty-nine! What lives they lived! what deaths they died! A thousand canons, darkling wide
Below Sierra's slopes of pine, Receive them now. And they who died Along the far, dim, desert route.
Their ghosts are many. Let them keep Their vast possessions. The Piute,
The tawny warrior, will dispute No boundary with these. And I, Who saw them live, who felt them die, Say, let their unploughed ashes sleep,
Untouched by man, by plain or steep. The bearded, sunbrown'd men who bore The burthen of that frightful year, Who toil'd, but did not gather store,
They shall not be forgotten. Drear And white, the plains of Shoshonee Shall point us to that farther shore,
And long white shining lines of bones, Make needless sign or white mile-stones. The wild man's yell, the groaning wheel; The train that moved like drifting barge;
The dust that rose up like a cloud, Like smoke of distant battle! Loud The great whips rang like shot, and steel Of antique fashion, crude and large,
Flash'd back as in some battle charge. They sought, yea, they did find their rest Along that long and lonesome way, These brave men buffeting the West
With lifted faces. Full were they Of great endeavor. Brave and true As stern Crusader clad in steel,
They died a-field as it was fit. Made strong with hope, they dared to do Achievement that a host to-day Would stagger at, stand back and reel,
Defeated at the thought of it. What brave endeavor to endure! What patient hope, when hope was past! What still surrender at the last,
A thousand leagues from hope! how pure They lived, how proud they died! How generous with life! The wide
And gloried age of chivalry Hath not one page like this to me. Let all these golden days go by, In sunny summer weather. I
But think upon my buried brave, And breathe beneath another sky. Let beauty glide in gilded car, And find my sundown seas afar,
Forgetful that‘ tis but one grave From eastmost to the westmost wave. Yea, I remember! The still tears That o'er uncoffin'd faces fell!
The final, silent, sad farewell! God! these are with me all the years! They shall be with me ever. I Shall not forget. I hold a trust.
They are a part of my existence. When Adown the shining iron track You sweep, and fields of corn flash back,
And herds of lowing steers move by, And men laugh loud, in mute distrust, I turn to other days, to men Who made a pathway with their dust.
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