Classic Poem

Under the ward of the Polar Star,
Where the great auroras snap and blaze,
There are crashing blows on the icy bar
That is set at the end of the open ways.
There are axes ringing across the crest,
The sluices shackle the streams that rolled,
As the gamesters gather from East and West,—
The men that follow the Trail of Gold.

A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face,
Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide;
The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace,
The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide.
Blood and bones on the snow and sod,
From the cañons black to the barrens gray,
Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod,
That those who follow may find the way.

There are strange ships west of the lonely isles
Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze;
There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles,
There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas.
There are corpses swept from the sinking hull,
As the steamer dips to the swelling gale,
For the rising shark and the wheeling gull
That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail.

The storm sweeps out from its Polar den,
Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow;
The North makes mock of the sons of men,
As the diggers lie in the drifts below.
The workers lie where the last work ceased,
The strong men scatter the lifeless wold;
And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast—
The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold.