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IV.

FAR in the West there lies a desert land, where

the mountains

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and

luminous summits.

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the

gorge, like a gateway,

Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emi

grant's wagon,

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and

Owyhee.

Eastward, with devious course, among the Windriver Mountains,

Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps

the Nebraska ;

And to the south. from Fontaine-qui-bout and the

Spanish Sierras,

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the

wind of the desert,

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend

to the ocean,

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations.

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies,

Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and

sunshine,

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple

amorphas.

Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk

and the roebuck;

Over them wander the wolves, and herds of rider

less horses;

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are

weary with travel;

Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ish

mael's children,

Staining the desert with blood; and above their

terrible war-trails

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the

vulture,

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the

heavens.

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of

these savage marauders;

Here and there rise groves from the margins of

swift-running rivers;

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert,

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side,

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline

heaven,

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above

them.

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the

Ozark Mountains,

Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers

behind him.

Day after day, with their Indian guides, the

maiden and Basil

Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him.

Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire

Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but

at nightfall,

When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes.

And, though their hearts were sad at times and

their bodies were weary,

Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fate

Morgana

Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated

and vanished before them.

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there

silently entered

Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose

features

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great

as her sorrow.

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her

people,

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel

Camanches,

Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois,

had been murdered.

Touched were their hearts at her story, and warm

est and friendliest welcome

Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on

the embers.

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all

his companions,

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