Classic Poem

The old stage-drivers of the brave old days!
The old stage-drivers with their dash and trust!
These old stage-drivers they have gone their ways
But their deeds live on, though their bones are dust;
And many brave tales are told and retold
Of these daring men in the days of old:

Of honest Hank Monk and his Tally-Ho,
When he took good Horace in his stage to climb
The high Sierras with their peaks of snow
And 'cross to Nevada, " and come in on time; "
But the canyon below was so deep — oh! so deep —
And the summit above was so steep — oh! so steep!

The horses were foaming. The summit ahead
Seemed as far as the stars on a still, clear night.
And steeper and steeper the narrow route led
Till up to the peaks of perpetual white;
But faithful Hank Monk, with his face to the snow,
Sat silent and stern on his Tally-Ho!

Sat steady and still, sat faithful and true
To the great, good man in his charge that day;
Sat vowing the man and the mail should " go through
On time " though he bursted both brace and stay;
Sat silently vowing, in face of the snow,
He'd " get in on time " with his Tally-Ho!

But the way was so steep and so slow — oh! so slow!
'Twas silver below, and the bright silver peak
Was silver above in its beauty and glow.
An eagle swooped by, Hank saw its hooked beak;
When, sudden out-popping a head snowy white —
" Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Nevada tonight! "

With just one thought that the mail must go through;
With just one word to the great, good man —
But weary — so weary — the creaking stage drew
As only a weary old creaking stage can —
When again shot the head; came shrieking outright:
" Mr. Monk, I MUST lecture in Nevada tonight! "

Just then came the summit! And the far world below,
It was Hank Monk's world. But he no word spake;
He pushed back his hat to that fierce peak of snow!
He threw out his foot to the eagle and brake!
He threw out his silk! He threw out his reins!
And the great wheels reeled as if reeling snow skeins!

The eagle was lost in his crag up above!
The horses flew swift as the swift light of morn!
The mail must go through with its message of love,
The miners were waiting his bright bugle horn.
The man must go through! And Monk made a vow
As he never had failed, why, he wouldn't fail now!

How his stage spun the pines like a far spider's web!
It was spider and fly in the heavens up there!
And the clanging of hoofs made the blood flow and ebb,
For 'twas death in the breadth of a wheel or a hair.
Once more popped the head, and the piping voice cried:
" Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk! " But no Monk replied!

Then the great stage it swung, as if swung from the sky;
Then it dipped like a ship in the deep jaws of death;
Then the good man he gasped as men gasping for breath,
When they deem it is coming their hour to die.
And again shot the head, like a battering ram,
And the face it was red, and the words they were hot:
" Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk! I don't care a (mill?) dam .
Whether I lecture in Nevada or not! "