All day a steady snow had drifted down,
Hiding the restful hues of dun and brown
On friendly hill-side, and the slender trail,
That bound us world-ward. Did no spirit quail
At the appalling doom looming before us,
With the unsettled snow-mass trembling o'er us?
If any feared, none spoke; the laugh and jest
Rang out as clear, perhaps with added zest
And but that they who worked at night-shift stood
With outstretched palms, in half unwilling mood
To leave the fire, no outward sign betrayed
If any felt discouraged or dismayed.
The storm had lulled, but the insatiate wind
Trailed a pathetic, vengeful wail behind,
When the brave four took courage, shut the light
And genial glow out from the prying night.
Six yet remained, not one essayed to speak;
The silence broken by a stifled shriek
That blanched all lips, and every man upsprung;
Wide to the night the cabin door was flung.
A rude gust quenched our lamp, and darkness gave
To unknown ill the horror of the grave,
A whirring din, a roll like distant thunder,
On coming, as the hills were rent asunder,
And with hushed breath we each the other eyed,
Knowing we faced that awful thing, a slide!
Our world-ward trail was sheltered by a ledge,
(Rising on one side like a rocky hedge,)
That served for shielding some the cabin door,
And as a quaking mass went thundering o'er
Beyond the trail, leaving it bare and steep,
Into a yawning chasm fathoms deep,
Our unbound hearts leaped upward with a sigh —
For us the King of Terrors had passed by.
The shaft-house from the cabin lay some feet,
Barely five score: but every tempest beat
With cruel fury thro' a small ravine
Across the trail, wholly devoid of screen;
And quite lost now. Instinct our only guide,
We labored blindly and on either side
A comrade found. These both alive were saved,
The shaft-house walls were whole, the roof had caved
And buried two, quite dead, tho' barely cold —
A sight that cowed the bravest to behold.
Will Clark was but a lad, not yet eighteen,
We know some household darling he had been;
For he had gentle speech and dainty ways,
Appeared to yearn for our good will and praise,
The other, Jack Monroe, was the reverse:
He sandwiched every sentence with a curse,
Defiant seemed, alike of God and man,
To such extremes his daily actions ran;
Yet strange to say, his friendship for the youth
Was strong as death, and beautiful as truth.
We found his giant body wedged between
The splintered rafters; an effectual screen
From their sharp spears, shielding the tender frame
As oft his tongue had sheltered him from blame;
One great hand held the slender fingers close,
One couched the head in its last long repose,
And thus they sleep, our pitying hands provided,
Who living, loved, in death were not divided.
Hiding the restful hues of dun and brown
On friendly hill-side, and the slender trail,
That bound us world-ward. Did no spirit quail
At the appalling doom looming before us,
With the unsettled snow-mass trembling o'er us?
If any feared, none spoke; the laugh and jest
Rang out as clear, perhaps with added zest
And but that they who worked at night-shift stood
With outstretched palms, in half unwilling mood
To leave the fire, no outward sign betrayed
If any felt discouraged or dismayed.
The storm had lulled, but the insatiate wind
Trailed a pathetic, vengeful wail behind,
When the brave four took courage, shut the light
And genial glow out from the prying night.
Six yet remained, not one essayed to speak;
The silence broken by a stifled shriek
That blanched all lips, and every man upsprung;
Wide to the night the cabin door was flung.
A rude gust quenched our lamp, and darkness gave
To unknown ill the horror of the grave,
A whirring din, a roll like distant thunder,
On coming, as the hills were rent asunder,
And with hushed breath we each the other eyed,
Knowing we faced that awful thing, a slide!
Our world-ward trail was sheltered by a ledge,
(Rising on one side like a rocky hedge,)
That served for shielding some the cabin door,
And as a quaking mass went thundering o'er
Beyond the trail, leaving it bare and steep,
Into a yawning chasm fathoms deep,
Our unbound hearts leaped upward with a sigh —
For us the King of Terrors had passed by.
The shaft-house from the cabin lay some feet,
Barely five score: but every tempest beat
With cruel fury thro' a small ravine
Across the trail, wholly devoid of screen;
And quite lost now. Instinct our only guide,
We labored blindly and on either side
A comrade found. These both alive were saved,
The shaft-house walls were whole, the roof had caved
And buried two, quite dead, tho' barely cold —
A sight that cowed the bravest to behold.
Will Clark was but a lad, not yet eighteen,
We know some household darling he had been;
For he had gentle speech and dainty ways,
Appeared to yearn for our good will and praise,
The other, Jack Monroe, was the reverse:
He sandwiched every sentence with a curse,
Defiant seemed, alike of God and man,
To such extremes his daily actions ran;
Yet strange to say, his friendship for the youth
Was strong as death, and beautiful as truth.
We found his giant body wedged between
The splintered rafters; an effectual screen
From their sharp spears, shielding the tender frame
As oft his tongue had sheltered him from blame;
One great hand held the slender fingers close,
One couched the head in its last long repose,
And thus they sleep, our pitying hands provided,
Who living, loved, in death were not divided.