The Bison Track by Bayard Taylor (1825-1878)

STRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a vapor streaks 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 tethered horses, as they snuff the morning’s fire;

Strike the tent! the saddles wait us, — let the bridle-reins be slack,

For the prairie’s distant thunder has betrayed  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 their stubborn horns are clashing through the crowded caravan.

–

Now the storm is down upon us: let the maddened horses go!

We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow!

Though the cloudy 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 tightened, nor the rider’s eye look back —

Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the maddened bison’s track!

–

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm

For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:

Swiftly hurl the whizzing lasso, —swing your rifles as we run:

See! the dust is red behind him, — shout, my comrades, 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  mad stampede, —

Ere we stem the brinded breakers, while the wolves, a hungry pack,

Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody Bison Track!