There was a sunny, savage land Beneath the eagle's wings, And there, across the thorns and sand, Wild rovers rode as kings. Is it a yarn from long ago And far across the sea? Could that land be the land we know? Those roving riders we? The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane. How comes it, pard of mine? Within a day it slipped away And hardly left a sign. Now history a tale has gained To please the younger ears— A race of kings that rose, and reigned, And passed in fifty years! Dream back beyond the cramping lanes To glories that have been— The camp smoke on the sunset plains, The riders loping in: Loose rein and rowelled heel to spare, The wind our only guide, For youth was in the saddle there With half a world to ride. The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane. Dead is the branding fire. The prairies wild are tame and mild, All close-corralled with wire. The sunburnt demigods who ranged And laughed and lived so free Have topped the last divide, or changed To men like you and me. Where, in the valley fields and fruits, Now hums a lively street, We milled a mob of fighting brutes Among the grim mesquit. It looks a far and fearful way— The trail from Now to Then— But time is telescoped to-day, A hundred years in ten. The trail's a lane, the trail's a lane. Our brows are scarcely seamed, But we may scan a mighty span Methuselah ne'er dreamed. Yet, pardner, we are dull and old, With paltry hopes and fears, Beside those rovers gay and bold Far riding down the years! |