Classic Poem

The sun had slipped down
The blue slant of the west;
The pale, queenly moon
Sat upon the night's crest,
With her face from the world
Turned in shame half away,
As she fondly pursued
Her loved king of the day.

The Yellowstone camp
In the valley below,
With its tents like tombstones
Set out in a row,
Was quaking with fear;
For the word had been brought
That a train was en route
With bold kidnappers fraught.

The President lay
In his well-guarded tent;
The general hither
And thither had sent
The men of his staff
And the men of his troop;
The visiting statesmen
Were crouched in a group.

On the soft summer breeze
Came a sharp, startling sound.
For a moment all stood
As in fear's fetters bound.
“What was that?” whispered Robert.
Said Rufus: “Fly! Hide!
'T is the savage war-whoop
Of the robber's red guide.”

“Man the outposts! Look sharp!”
The brave general said.
“Guard the President well.”
And with field-glass he read
The circling horizon,
To south and to east,
Till his eye fell, at last,
On the skulking red beast.

Every eye in the camp
Strained, the pale night to pierce;
Every hand clutched a gun,
As by fear rendered fierce;
Every heart pounded hard
At the ribs of its cage
As forms were spied, veiled
By a thicket of sage.

Flash! each gun laughed a flame
Like a demon at sport.
Crash! the still night was rent
By the awful report,
And the craggy old mountains
Reëchoed “Ha, ha!”
Till the sounds seemed to blend
In a giant guffaw.

Hours and hours the camp watched
Till the bright threads of dawn
Wove a shining gold veil
For the night to put on.
Then, there in the sage-brush,
In bullet-torn coats,
Lay the earthly remains
Of a pair of coyotes.