OVER THE RANGE
“L—— died at Chilikoot Pass: ‘Good-bye boys,’ he said; ‘I’m going over the range too—but I’ve got to blaze my own trail.’”
Letter from the Klondyke.
Open the door of the tent, boys,
And turn my face to the snow;
Let me look once more on the grand old peaks
Ere my summons comes to go;
For I start tonight on a stranger trail
Than any our feet have trod—
With never a blaze to mark the way,
Nor a footstep pressed on the sod.
’Tis an old, old road, but who passes there
Goes out in the dark alone;
With no hail from the comrades gone before,
And the camping-grounds unknown;
There’s never a guide for love or gold
Would lead you along that track,
And you needn’t tighten your cartridge belt,
Nor diamond hitch the pack.
What foes may lurk in the shadows dark
No mortal hand can stay;
And the wealth you have heaped with a lifetime’s toil
Is as dust beside the way;
For empty-handed we strike Life’s trail
When the dawn wind sings of hope,—
And empty-handed we turn at last
On the brink of its utmost slope.
I set my face to the stars tonight,
My heart to the Silent Call;
And fearlessly follow the unknown path
That leads to the fate of all.—
Be it rest or work or peace or strife—
Be rust or growth the change—
Here’s one who goes with a joyous soul,
Nor shrinks to cross the range.