"Fort Arbuckle" by James Harris Guy
I halt with the sitting sun
To gaze on the open world.
And the work that the years have done;
And a vision rises before me,
Of the past as it hath been,
And all that the rolling hills have heard,
And the bright-eyed stars have seen.
Full many a thrilling story
Could the echoing rocks repeat,
And methinks I hear in the forest
The tramp of hurrying feet.
The yells of the great Commanche
Ring once more in my ear,
And files of the ghostly warriors
Appear and disappear.
I see the dusky phantoms
Rise from their graves to-day,
With the war paint still upon them
As they started for the fray;
They scorned the white man's promise
And refused to be his slaves,
But their ranks were few and feeble,
And the sun sets on their graves.
Once more from the hill above me
The painted warriors ride.
And fall upon Fort Arbuckle
Like rocks from the mountain side;
But now the bow and the quiver
Give place to the plodding plow,
A bible, a hut, a handful of corn
And a Christian's broken vow.
Oh, mystical Fort Arbuckle,
The sun is falling aslant,
And a friend stands out in his doorway;
God speed thee, Thomas Grant;
For thou hast ever a seat at thy board,
And in thy heart a place,
For him who would sing the wide world o'er
The songs of a ruined race.