As the gamesters gather from East and West,—
The men that follow the Trail of Gold.
A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face,
Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide;
The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace,
The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide.
Blood and bones on the snow and sod,
From the cañons black to the barrens gray,
Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod,
That those who follow may find the way.