The Poems of John Rollin Ridge
by Jeff Ward

Originally Published by Henry Payot & Company, Publishers.

The Humbolt Desert

Who journeys o'er the desert now,
Where sinks engulfed the Humboldt river,
Arrested in its sudden flow,
But pouring in that depth forever.

As if the famished earth would drink
Adry the tributes of the mountains,
Yet wither on the water's brink,
And thirst for still unnumbered fountains.

Who journeys o'er that desert now
Shall see strange sights, I ween, and ghastly;
For he shall trace awearied, slow,
Across this waste extended vastly,

The steps of pilgrims westward bound,
Bound westward to the Land Pacific,
Where hoped for rest and peace are found,
And plenty waves her wand prolific.

Along this parched and dreary track,
Nor leaf, nor blade, nor shrub appeareth;
The sky above doth moisture lack,
And brazen glare the vision seareth;

Nor shadow, save the traveler's own,
Doth bless with coolness seeming only,
And save his muffled step alone
Or desert-bird's wild shriek and lonely,

No sound is heard—a realm of blight,
Of weird-like silence and a brightness
That maketh but a gloom of light,
Where glimmer shapes of spectral whiteness!

They are the bones that bleaching lie
Where fell the wearied beast o'er-driven,
And upward cast his dying eye,
As if in dumb appeal to heaven.

Far lengthening miles on miles they lie,
These sad memorials grim and hoary,
And every whitening heap we spy
Doth tell some way-worn pilgrim's story.

Hard by each skeleton there stand
The wheels it drew, or warped or shrunken,
And in the drifted, yielding sand
The yoke or rusted chain lies sunken.

Nor marvel we, if yonder peers,
From out some scooped-out grave and shallow,
A human head, which fleshless leers
With a look that doth the place unhallow.

Each annual pilgrimage hat strewn
These monuments unnamed, undated,
Till now were bone but piled on bone,
And heaped-up wrecks but congregated,

A pyramid would rise as vast
As one of those old tombs Egyptian,
Which speak from distant ages past
With time-worn, mystic, strange inscription.

But pass we these grim, mouldering things,
Decay shall claim as Time may order,
For, offspring of the mountain springs,
A river rims the desert border;

With margin green and beautiful,
And sparkling water silver-sounding,
And trees with zephyrs musical,
And answering birds with songs abounding,

And velvet flowers of thousand scents,
And clambering vines with blossoms crested;
Twas here the pilgrims pitched their tents,
And from their toilsome travel rested.

Oh sweet such rest to him who faints
Upon the journey long and weary!
And scenes like this the traveler paints,
While dying on the wayside weary.

Sad pilgrims o'er life's desert, we,
Our tedious journey onward ever;
But rest for us there yet shall be,
When camped upon the HEAVENLY RIVER.

The Poems of John Rollin Ridge by Jeff Ward

Originally Published by Henry Payot & Company, Publishers.

The Humbolt Desert

The Poems of John Rollin Ridge
by Jeff Ward