The Bison-Track

Strike the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud
has ribb'd the dawn,
And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan:
Prime afresh the trusty rifle — sharpen well the hunting-spear —
For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!

Fiercely stamp the tether'd horses, as they snuff the morning's fire,
And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire;
Strike the tent — the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack,
For the prairie's distant thunder has betray'd the bison's track!

See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar,
Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore!
Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the
foremost of the van,
And the stubborn horns are striking, through the crowded caravan.

Now the storm is down upon us — let the madden'd horses go!
We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!
Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the
red eyes' angry glare
Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing air!

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race,
And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space:
Yet the rein may not be tighten'd, nor the rider's eye look back —
Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the madden'd bison's track!

Now the trampling herds arc threaded, and the
chase is close and warm
For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:
Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless — swing your
rifles as we run!
Ha! the dust is red behind him: shout, my brothers, he is won!

Look not on him as he staggers — 'tis the last shot he will need;
More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede —
Ere we stem the swarthy breakers — while the
wolves, a hungry pack,
Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track!