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!