Classic Poem

The mountains grow daily stranger,
The river windings betray;
And the ranger who laughed at danger
Has lost forever his way.

Full many a shore he trended,
Full many a desert crost,
Full many a crest ascended;
But Boone, the hunter, was lost.

At last, as the day fell dimmer,
He came to a peak of snow,
Revealing with ghostly glimmer
More countries than mortals know.

And there, on the topmost glisten,
The ranger saw phantoms three,
Each warning, " O pilgrim, listen! "
Each pleading, " O come with me! "

A seraph was one from glory,
And one was a darkling sprite,
And one was a chieftain of story
The hunter had slain in fight.

Three trails they showed him, divided
The one from the other far;
The first through firmaments glided
To ramparts bright as a star;

The second slanted through shadows
Beyond earth's somberest bounds;
The third sought emerald meadows —
The Beautiful Hunting Grounds.

Said Boone, " The skyland is brighter
Than sinner like me may scale,
And only a craven fighter
Belongs in the murky trail;

" So now to my ancient foeman
I proffer my troth and say:
Guide me, O bowman, where no man
Unearths the hatchet to slay. "