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The Lost Hunter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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72

The Lost Hunter.

The mountains grow daily stranger,
The river windings betray;
And the ranger who laughed at danger
Has lost forever his way.
Full many a shore he trended,
Full many a desert crost,
Full many a crest ascended;
But Boone, the hunter, was lost.
At last, as the day fell dimmer,
He came to a peak of snow,
Revealing with ghostly glimmer
More countries than mortals know.
And there, on the topmost glisten,
The ranger saw phantoms three,
Each warning, “O pilgrim, listen!”
Each pleading, “O come with me!”
A seraph was one from glory,
And one was a darkling sprite,
And one was a chieftain of story
The hunter had slain in fight.
Three trails they showed him, divided
The one from the other far;
The first through firmaments glided
To ramparts bright as a star;

73

The second slanted through shadows
Beyond earth's somberest bounds;
The third sought emerald meadows—
The Beautiful Hunting Grounds.
Said Boone, “The skyland is brighter
Than sinner like me may scale,
And only a craven fighter
Belongs in the murky trail;
“So now to my ancient foeman
I proffer my troth and say:
Guide me, O bowman, where no man
Unearths the hatchet to slay.”