There, oft in the dark, we trembled to hark
To his muffled call, by bank of the pond,
And to those who lacked in spirit of fear,
It was death to inquire, and death to respond.
Oft have we trod on the ranks of the slain,
As prostrate they lay near some crystal stream
Lured to their end by the low, soothing cry,
Mocking the mate of a love-longing dream.
To the whispering rest of the trackless West,
We travel to live where the range-land is clear,