X o o -a rn rn Ui -I n 8 en -n -^J ro RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES; OR, WHAT THE POETS HAVE FOUND TO SAY BEAUTIFUL SCENERY ; DENVER & RIO GRANDE RAILROAD, THE SCENIC LINE OF THE WORLD. THIRTEENTH EDITION, 325,000. COPYRIGHT. 1895, BY S. K. HOOPER. CHICAGO: POOLE BROS., PRINTERS AND ENGRAVERS. 1895, PRESENTATION. Cfyis little Book of Poems, Descriptive of Scenes among tfye Hocky mountains as pierueb from trains of Cfye Denver & Hio <>ranbe Kailroab, is presenteb untfy tfye compliments of General Passenger Agent. COPIES OF "RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES" WILL BE SENT TO ANY ADDRESS ON APPLICATION TO K T .IKIKKKY, President and General Manager, .... DEN\EI:. A. S. MUUHKS, Traffic Manager, DENVER. S. K. HOOVER, General Passenger and Ticket Agent, - - - DENVER. K. A. WAULEIOH, Assistant General Passenger and Ticket Agent, DENVER. H. E. TUPPEE, General Eastern Agent, - - 273 Broadway, NEW YORK. J. W. SLOSSOX, General Agent, - 236 Clark Street, CHICAGO. H. V. LUYSTK, Traveling Agent, - 305 \Vost Ninth Street, KANSAS CITY. W. V. TIDBITS, Traveling Agent.- - DENVER. W. J. SHOTWELL, General Agent, - - 2<>3 Front Street, SAN FRANCISCO. W. H. SNSDAKER, Gen'l Agent K. G. W. Ry., U Montgomery St.. SAN FRANCIS, o. B. F. NRVIKS, General Agent, SALT LAKE Cmr. t Library PREFACE. WHEREVER Nature appears in her grander moods, her inspiration stirs the heart and the imagination, and whether it be the " Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," the Crags of the "Rio de Las Animas," "The Royal Gorge," the rocky declivities of " Ben Venue " or the cleft summit of "The Mount of the Holy Cross," the poetic spirit is invoked and a rhythmic offering laid upon the altar of the muses. The picturesque countries of the old world have been immortalized in song, and to show that Colorado, one of the newest portions of the new world has not failed to inspire the same sentiments in the hearts of none the less sincere poets, this book has been pre- pared. Upon these pages are presented a few of the con- tributions to poetic literature incited by beholding scenes grander and more varied than those of Scotland, Italy or Switzerland, all the more valuable because spontaneous and therefore expressive of genuine emotions. In order that nothing may be lacking in the conveying of a vivid impression, pictures which are works of art supplement the poems, and to further assist the imagination of those who have not beheld these scenes and to refresh the mem- ory of those who have beheld them, brief but accurate descriptions have been added. In a work of this character, brevity must be observed and only typical poems and scenes have been selected. The mid-continent region traversed by the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad possesses without doubt the most magnificent scenery in the world and the difficulty has been, not what to select, but what to omit. As it is, this book must be considered as only a hint as to what exists in the wonderland of the Rocky mountains and its object will be attained if it excite an intelligent interest in the most picturesque portion of our country. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. PRELUDE. My country 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where our fathers died, Land of the pilgrim's pride, From every mountain side Let Freedom ring. My native country, thee, Land of the noble free Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrill* Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees, Sweet freedom's song; Let mortal tongues awake, Let all that breathe partake, Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong. Our father's God to thee, Author of Liberty, To thee I sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. PALMER LAKE. PALMER LAKE, in addition to being a place of exceeding beauty, is a natural curiosity, poised, as it is, exactly on the summit of the ''Divide," a spur of the outlying range of the Rockies, extending eastward into the great plains, and from this summit the waters of the lake flow northward to the Platte and southward to the Arkansas. Approached from either Denver or Pueblo, via the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad, it breaks suddenly upon the sight, a vision of sylvan beauty and delight. Red-roofed, picturesque cottages nestle here and there among the hills, gaily-painted boats float gracefully upon the bright blue waters, a fountain in the center flings its spray half a hundred feet into the air, and on either hand rugged peaks, pine-clad and broken by castellated rocks, rise into a sky whose cerulean hue is reflected by the placid waters of the lake. Excellent hotels and livery establishments furnish good accommodations for sojourn- ers. Surely here can be found the realization of Petrarch's lines: " The ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, Developing the mountains, leaves and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, whereby, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality." Closely contiguous is Glen Park, an assembly ground modeled after the famous Chautauqua and destined to become equally as popular in the West as its prototype in the East. Objects of natural interest are abundant and the walks and drives to Glen D'Eau, Bellview Point, Ben Lomond, the Arched Rocks and the canons and glens adjacent afford material for enjoyment in the seeing and for many pleasant memories. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. PALMER LAKE. W. E. PABOR. Serene and sweet and smiling as a bride Nestles Lake Palmer on the green Divide ; The hills around it, the blue sky above, The summer sunshine bathing it in love; Fair as the lochs that lie in Scotia's glens, Worthy the praise that comes from poets' pens. Its sparkling waters in the sunshine gleam Full of the glamour of the sweetest dream.. Toward the sunset, in the green defile, The pine trees rustle and the wild flowers smile, The crystal waters of the creek flow by, White as the snows that on the mountains lie; Within the shadow bits of sunshine rest Like diamonds gleaming from an umber nest; Wild roses blush at kisses given by bees And black-birds twitter underneath the trees. The waters ripple to the lake's green shore, Timing the dipping of the boatman's oar; The fountain glistens in the sun's warm beams, The white spray falling down in rainbow streams ; The air is full of melody and sound, Voices float out as if from fairy ground, And all our thoughts to happy fancies run Under the languor of the summer sun. Oh! lake of beauty, glen of sweet content! On the headwaters of the Monument; The hills that hide thee, and each bosky dell That nestles near thee, but one story tell; To those who love fair Nature when she waits And smiles a welcome at the open gates, Where Pleasure stands to lead to leaf-robed nooks And sweet delights we cannot find in books. GATEWAY TO THE GARDEN OF THE GODS. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. THE GARDEN OF THE GODS. THE GARDEN OF THE GODS is a valley of won- ders easily accessible from Manitou. Approached from the west the entrance is through what may aptly be called a postern gate in contrast with the entrance from the east through the grand gateway. In this solitude nature has perpetrated many strange freaks of sculpture and of architecture, as if she were diverting herself after the strain of the mighty mood in which the mountains were brought forth. Solitude is here unbroken by the resi- dence of man, but inanimate forms of stone supply quaint and grotesque suggestions of life. Here are found hints of Athens and the Parthenon, Palmyra and the Pyramids, Karnac and her crumbling columns. Many of these mono- liths are nearly tabular and reach the height of three and four hundred feet. Two of the loftier ones, with a small space between, make the two portals of the famed gate- way. After their form, their most striking feature is their color, which glows with an intensity of red unknown in any of the sandstones of the east. Standing outlined against a spotless sky of blue, with the white light of the sun falling upon them, these portals flash with the bright splendor of carnelian. The inanimate forms have received appropriate designations. There is a "Statue of Liberty," a "Cathedral Spire," a " Dolphin," a "Bear and Seal," a "Lion," a "Griffin," and hundreds of other quaint and curious figures, making a list far too extended for recapitu- lation here. No words can describe the weird attractions of this wonderful garden, which, once beheld, however, can never be forgotten. The impression is of something mighty, unreal and supernatural. Of the gods surely but of the gods of the Norse Walhalla in some of their strange outbursts of wild rage or uncouth playfulness. IO RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. THE GARDEN OF THE GODS WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. Beneath the rocky peak that hides In clouds its snow-flecked crest, Within these crimson crags abides An Orient in the West. These tints of flame, these myriad dyes, This Eastern desert calm, Should catch the gleam of Syrian skies, Or shade of Egypt's palm. As if to bar the dawn's first light These ruby gates are hung; As if from Sinai's frowning height These riven tablets flung. But not the Orient's drowsy gaze, Young Empire's opening lids Greet these strange shapes, of earlier days Than Sphinx or Pyramids. Here the New West its wealth unlocks, And tears the veil aside, Which hides the mystic glades and rocks The Red man deified. This greensward, girt with tongues of flame. With spectral pillars strewn, Not strangely did the savage name A haunt of gods unknown. Hard by the gentle Manitou His healing fountains poured; Blood -red, against the cloudless blue, These storm -tossed Titans soared. With torrents wild and tempest blast, And fierce volcanic fires, In secret moulds, has Nature cast Her monoliths and spires. Their shadows linger where we tread, Their beauty fills the place; A broken shrine its votaries fled A spurned and vanished race. Untouched by Time the garden gleam*, Unplucked the \vild flower shines, And the scarred summit's rifted seams Are bright with glistening pines. And still the guileless heart that waits At Nature's feet may find, Within the rosy, sun-lit gates, A hidden glory shrined. His presence feel to whom, in fear, Untaught, the savage prayed, And, listening in the garden, hear His voice, nor be afraid. 12 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. MANITOU. IL^ANITOU is the ideal summer resort, having been I V \ favored by nature with healing springs equal, if I lL not superior, in efficacy to those of Ems or Spa or Saratoga, and being surrounded by scenery more beau- tiful, grand and varied than that of any similar resort in the world. Here is an Arcadian valley, lying at the foot of Pike's Peak, protected by encircling mountains and enlivened by the foam-bedecked, flashing waters of the Fountain que Bouille, which, full of the sprightliness of its youth in Ute Pass and its escapade at Rainbow Falls, comes dashing and splashing and singing its happy song: " I chatter over stonj ways, In little sharps and trebles; I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles." This valley is made the site of a village, picturesque in its construction and abounding in hotels which rival in elegance and luxury those of the famous Eastern watering-places. With a climate renowned for its salubrity, with medicinal springs of acknowledged superiority, with pure air, bright sunshine and a walk or drive leading to some new object of interest for each day in the week, Manitou has justly received the palm as the most charming of summer resorts. Easily accessible, being a station on the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad, only three hours' ride from Den- ver or Pueblo, it is thronged each season by the wealth, cultivation and fashion, not only of Colorado, but also of the East, from all parts of which may be found represent- atives whose days of enjoyment here not only secure their return, but also the presence of their friends, attracted by the glowing reports of those who have experienced its manifold attractions. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. MANITOU. EDGAR P. VANGASSEN. Where the shadow of the mountain Meets the sunshine of the fountain, Listen t o these -voices singing And the message they are bringing : SPIRIT OF THE SPRINGS: Sister spirit of the stream Is it real or a dream ? Faces in their color change, Voices take a wider range; Nature's emerald bosom shows Charm and color of the rose ; Tell me, spirit, is it true, All things old give place to new SPIRIT OF THE SPRINGS: Sister spirit of the stream It is real, not a dream! Echoes as from Eden wake Music such as" seraphs make In each glen and through each rift Where your shining waters drift; While the song of youth and maid Crown each cool and shadowed glade. SPIRIT OF THE STREAM: Sister spirit of the spring, Fresher, clearer voices sing Of a whiter, later race Taking the swart Indian's place. Art to Nature gives her hand; Fashion waves her magic wand, And the languorous glamour cast Veils the glory of the past. SPIRIT OF THE STREAM: From the peak down which I flou With my water born of snow, To the valley lands that lie 'Neath a warm and sunny sky, All the air is full of change, Change as sweet as it is strange , And my song forever chimes To these later, happier times. THE SPIRITS OF THE SPRINGS AND STREAM: Whiter tepees crown our hills, Sweeter lips now touch our rills; Under Manitou's bright skies Fairer faces meet our eyes; And where crystal waters glide Happy lovers blush and hide; Dusky features fade away, Saxon faces crown To- Day. Flash on fountain, roll on river, Snovj croTvned peak and sun- kissed vale / These are Nature's gifts forever, Until Nature's self shall fail. IN CHEYENNE CANON RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. CHEYENNE CANON. GiEYENNE CANON is full of surprises. A pleasant drive of four miles from Colorado Springs brings one to the place. The vulgar linear measure of its length is out of harmony with the winding path, over rocks, between straight pines and across the rushing waters of the brook that boils down the whole rocky cut. The narrow gorge ends in a round well of granite, down one side of which leaps, slides, foams and rushes a series of cascades seven falls in line pouring the water from the melted snow above into this cup. In this deep hollow only the noonday sun ever shines. Going up the cafion, with the roar of the waters ahead and the winding path before one, the loftiness and savage wildness of the walls catch only a dizzying glance, but coming out their sides seem to touch the heavens and to be measureless.^ The eye can hardly take in the vast height and, with the after- noon sun touching only the extreme tops, one realizes in what a crevice and fissure of the rocks the cafion winds. A comparison between this and the Via Mala and the other wild gorges of the Alps is impossible, but had legend and history and poetry followed it for centuries Cheyenne canon would have its great features acknowledged. Above the waterfall, on the eastward slope of Cheyenne mount- ain, is the grave of one of America's truest poets and most remarkable women, "H. H." Here the late Helen Hunt Jackson lies asleep among the scenes she loved. " Such graves as these are pilgrims' shrines Shrines to no codes or creed confined, The Delphian Vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind." Cheyenne cafion has henceforth and forever a profounder meaning, its unexampled beauty being supplemented by 'a sacred and tender memory. 16 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. CHEYENNE CANON STANLEY WOOD. Oh, Cheyenne cafion! in thy dim defiles, Where glooms the light, as through cathedral aisles, Where flash and fall bright waters, pure as air, Where wild birds brood, wild blossoms bloom, and where The wind sings anthems through the darkling trees, A presence breathes the tenderest melodies, Songs that the finer ears of poets feel But do not hear, ethereal chords that steal Upon the soul, as fragrance of the flowers, Unseen, unknown, from undiscovered bowers, Enwraps the senses with a deep delight, Pure as the stars and tender as the night. For here in Nature's arms there lies asleep One who loved Nature with a passion deep, Who knew her language and who read her book, Who sang her music, which the bird, the brook, The winds, the woods, the mountains and the seas Chant ever, in commingling harmonies. Oh, Cheyenne cafion ! through thy dim defiles The music floats as through cathedral aisles ; The singer silent, but the song is heard In sigh of wind and carolling of bird. All these the poet's melodies prolong, For Nature now sings o'er her loved one's song. l8 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. VETA PASS. rROM VETA PASS one beholds a scene of great magnificence, but it is not alone the view that repays the tourist; the ascent itself is fraught with the profoundest interest. The Denver & Rio Grande Rail- road accomplishes the summit by a series of stupendous grades and the most remarkable curve in the history of railroad engineering. The "muleshoe curve" is a scientific achievement worth a trip across the continent to see. The road is a mere groove cut in the side of the mountain, which is so steep that a boulder set in motion goes thundering down and does not stop until it reaches the bottom of the gorge. But thrilling as this passage is, up the sinuous roadway along the mountain* side, it has no real elements of danger in it. No accident has ever happened here and, should a part of the train break away, it would be stopped in less than a car's length by the prompt' action of the automatic brake with which all trains on this mountain-climbing system are provided. But it is from the summit of the Pass that one looks upon a scene of stupendous magnificence. From the pinnacle he gazes eastward to the dim horizon line where the cloudless sky shuts down uf>on the ever-widening plains, broken, to the south, by the symmetrical Spanish peaks. Turning to the west, he sees the majestic form of Sierra Blanca, the loftiest mountain in the Rocky range, and rendered more remarkable by its triple peak, while, to the north, La Veta mountain stands stupendous and sublime. The climb has been difficult up the tremendous grade of 211 feet to the mile, but, when the apex has been reached, the train glides into the timber and halts at the handsome stone station over nine thousand feet above the level of the distant sea. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. VETA PASS. EDGAR PEARSON. Imperial heights of Veto's star-crowned crest! Entranced with rapture on the Pass I stand, San Luis park, an empire, to the west, Sky-piercing peaks upreared on every hand. Chiefest of all Sierra Blanca towers, Monarch of mountains, whose imperial frown Marks him supreme among these giant power*, Whose Titan brow upbears a triple crown. Serenely grand against the azure sky, Far to the east, the Spanish peaks uprear Twin pyramids, snow-crowned and high, A dream of Egypt to the sight appear. A granite ocean slumbers at my feet, Whose waves are mountains and whose foam is snow, The clouds beneath me, like a ghostly fleet, Sail slowly by, but whither none may know. Below the serpent path, the sinuous coil, By which we pass beyond these granite bars, Bears witness that it is alone by toil Mankind may reach at last the shining stars RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. 21 SIERRA BLANCA. SIERRA BLANCA is the monarch of the Rocky range and the loftiest mountain, with one excep- tion, in the United States. It is characterized by the peculiarity of a triple peak and rises directly from the plain to the stupendous height of 14,469 feet, over two miles and three-fifths of sheer ascent. A magnificent view of this mountain is obtained from the cars of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad as soon as the descent from Veta Pass into the San Luis Valley has been made. Surely it is worth a journey across the continent to obtain a view of such a mountain! Although a part of the range, it stands at the head of the valley, like a monarch taking pre- cedence of a lordly retinue. Two-thirds of its height is above timber-line, bare and desolate, and except for a month or two of midsummer, dazzling white with snow, while in its abysmal gorges it holds eternal reservoirs of ice. " Oh, sacred mount with kingly crest Through tideless ether reaching, The earth-world kneels to hear the prayer Thy dusky slopes are teaching. With mystic glow on sunset eyes All trembling lie thy blood-red leaves, Their silken veins with gold inwrought. Oh, glorious is thy world- wide thought!" The lower slopes of the mountain are clad in vast forests of pine and hemlock, while its grand triad of gray granite peaks lift into the sky their sharp pyramidal pin- nacles, splintered and furrowed by the storm-compelling and omnipotent hand of the Almighty. To the north and south, for a distance of nearly two hundred miles, it is flanked by the serrated crests of the Sangre de Cristo range, the whole forming a panorama of unexampled grandeur and beauty. 22 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. SIERRA BLANCA, PATIENCE STAPI.ETON. North star o'er seas of land, Mountain, serene and grand, Sentinel of the Rockies stand, Sierra Blanca; Dial of recorded time Reared in solitude sublime. In the light of that far day W^hat strange races, who shall say, Lived their lives and went their way? Sierra Blanca; What strange monsters of the deep Went to dust in death's last sleep? Poets, raptured, long have told Of the crown of sunset gold Resting on thy crest so old, Sierra Blanca; In all this land is given Thee to be nighest Heaven. Ere that exile on him fell Once the Indian loved him well, Happy in thy shades to dwell, Sierra Blanca; Now the wolf in hidden lair Unmolested scents the air. Vision to the artist rare Is the purple robe so fair Thou with kingly grace doth wear, Sierra Blanca; And thy velvet pall of night, Crown stars deck with jewels bright. Once the Spanish cavalier Held thee in his heart so dear, Half in love, half in fear, Sierra Blanca; Martyr priests might happy sigh At thy glorious feet to die. Once the waves of oceans past Silver waves rolling fast Sunny spray o'er thee cast, Sierra Blanca; Forests green crept up thy side. Followed close the ebbing tide. Over all the green plains wide Peace and joy do now abide, Happy homes below thee hide, Sierra Blanca; High uplifted childish eyes Liken thee to Paradise. 24 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. WAGON WHEEL GAP. the Del Norte Branch of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad is Wagon Wheel Gap, which has become the favorite sporting ground for seekers of health and the lovers of the rod and gun. The scenery is won- derfully beautiful. As the Gap is approached the valley narrows until the river is hemmed in between massive walls of solid rock and rise to such a height on either side as to throw the passage into twilight shadow. The river rushes roaring down over gleaming gravel or precipitous ledges. Progressing, the scene becomes wilder and more romantic, until at last the waters of the Rio Grande pour through a cleft in the rocks just wide enough to allow the construction of a road along the river's edge. On the right, as one enters, tower cliffs to a tremendous height, suggestive in their appearance to the Palisades of the Hudson. On the left rises the round shoulder of a massive mountain. The vast wall is unbroken for more than half a mile, its crest presenting an almost unserrated sky-line. Once through the Gap, the traveler, looking toward the south, sees a valley encroached upon and surrounded by hills "Bathed in the tenderest purple of distance, Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air." Here is an old stage station, a primitive and pictur- esque structure of hewn logs, made cool and inviting by wide-roofed verandas. Not a hundred feet away rolls the Rio Grande river, swarming with trout. A drive of a mile along a winding road, each turn in which reveals new scenic beauties, brings the tourist to the famous springs. The medicinal qualities of the waters, both of the cold and hot springs, have be< n thoroughly tested and proved equal, if not superior, to the; Hot Springs of .Arkansas. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. 2$ WAGON WHEEL GAP. BY H. L. WASSON. So " pretty " expresses the scene to you- You only gather what n.^ets the eye, A charming spot for a picture view; A vale where the sunbeams tender He. But to us, who know how sublime can be This relic of Eden in summer green, Where the Rio Grande sings of the sea, And its silver waves fringe the rocks between, The word falls null, for our trained ears In every ripple detect a sob; But we face our birthright of toil and tears With hearts that beat to a fearless throb. For have we not seen the Storm King ride Through the narrow gorge with his armed Knights, Their snow-white banners in martial pride Defiantly streaming upon the heights; Have felt the shock as they thundered past, On the heart of Nature, pulsing strong, Their bugle note but a shrieking blast, Prolonged and clear as a Norse God's song. Yes, seen the morning encrown the peaks In silver beams on a helmet blue, And learned the language this grandeur speaks No tempest conquers if faith stands true. And the scene becomes a cathedral pile A choir in the Rio Grande hymn, Our passions buried in every aisle, And peace, High Priest at the altar dim. TOLTEC GORGE AND TUNNEL RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. 2; TOLTEC GORGE. [N hour's ride from Antonita brings the traveler to the brow of a precipitous hill, from whence he looks down on the picturesque valley of the Los Pinos. As the advance is made around mountain spurs and deep ravines, glimpses are caught of profound depths and towering heights, and then the train, making a detour of four miles around a side cafton, plunges into the blackness of Toltec tunnel, which is remarkable in that it pierces the summit of the mountain instead of its base. Twelve hundred feet of perpendicular descent would take one to the bottom of the gorge, while the seared and wrinkled expanse of the opposite wall confronts us, lifting its massive bulwarks high above us, " Fronting heaven's splendor, Strong and full and clear." When the train emerges from the tunnel it is upon the brink of a precipice. A solid bridge of trestle-work, set in the rock after the manner of a balcony, supports the track, and from this coigne of vantage the traveler beholds a most thrilling spectacle. The tremendous gorge, whose sides are splintered rocks and monumental crags and whose depths are filled with the snow-white waters of a foaming torrent, lies beneath him, the blue sky is above him and all around the majesty and mystery of the mountains. On the 20th day of September, 1881, the National Association of General Passenger Agents (then on an excursion over the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad), at the time President Garfield was being buried in Cleve- land, held memorial services at the mouth of Toltec tun- nel and since have erected a beautiful monument in com- memoration of the event. 28 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. TOLTEC GORGE. PATIENCE STAPLKTON. Against the snows of cloud hills high, Majestic mountains, centuries old, Reach rugged heights far up the sky, Like Babel's tower in story old. The winds of night in furious rage Beat 'gainst the wall 'twixt earth and Heaven; Bach element tireless war did wage ; Backward, defeated each was driven. The warm Chinook o'er the prairie sighed ; The north wind fled to frozen seas ; The chill east wind in coast fogs died; The avalanche crashed amid the trees. Furrowed and tortured, in silent woe, One mountain bore the storms of ages, And sun of summer or winter's snow Left no trace on its mystic pages. But a drift of snow that lay long hidden In creviced niche on a lean peak's crest, Wept bitter tears that crept unchidden Far down the mountain's unyielding breast. The river down in the valley knew, For the stream whispered when they met The brook and river and, laughing, too, The hills had never a thought as yet. In years the mountain's heart of rock Yields to the subtle brook, and fast, With thunder peal and earthquake shock, Crashed chasm open defeat at last. Centuries pass. The deep drifted snows Fade 'neath summer suns, and the stream Widens the gorge, and misty breath throws High up black walls that silvery gleam. But a web is cast of iron strong, Like a spider's home of thread-like coil. The brook is tamed, and its echoing song Praises the power of human toil. ANIMAS CANON AND THE NEEDLE MOUNTAINS. 30 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. ANIMAS CANON. rt NIMAS CANON is one of the wildest and most pict- ^M uresque gorges in the Rocky mountains. Through 1 1 it the Rio de las Animas Perdidas, or " River of Lost Souls," finds its way to the valley below. For a dozen miles north of Durango the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad traverses the fertile and cultivated valley of the Animas in its approach to the canon. Soon the valley becomes more broken and contracted, the approaching walls grow more precipitous and the smooth meadows give place to stately pines and sighing sycamores. The silvery Animas frets in its narrowing bed and breaks into foam against the opposing boulders. The road climbs and clings to the rising cliffs and presently the earth and stately pines have receded and the train rolls along a mere granite shelf in mid-air. Above, the vertical wall rises a thousand feet; below, hundreds of feet of perpendicular depth and a fathomless river. The caflon is here a mere rent in the mountain, so narrow one may toss a pebble across, and the cramped stream has assumed the deep emerald hue of the ocean. In the shadows of the rocks all is solitary, and weird, and awful. The startled traveler quickly loses all apprehension in the wondrous beauty and grandeur of the scene and, as successive curves repeat and enhance the enchantment, nature asserts herself in ecstacy. Emerging from the marvelous gorge, the bed of the cafion rapidly rises until the roadway is but a few feet above the stream. Dark walls of rock are replaced with clustering mountains ot supreme height, whose abruptness defies the toot ot man, and The Needles, the most peculiar and striking of the Rockies, thrust their splintered pinna- cles into the regions of perpetual snow. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. 3! RIO DE LAS ANIMAS PERDIDAS EDGAR P. VANGASSEN. Rapid the current rolls In the river of lost souls! Rapid and white when the night Lies swathed in the warm moonlight. Rapid and white in the day As it swirls along its way, Born of the silvery rills In the pine and cedared hills. Flashing, dashing, Swirling, crashing, Moaning in the gulch of shadow, Laughing through the shining meadow, Hugging close the rocky rifts, Gliding amid boulder drifts; Loving, smiling, Care beguiling, Cool and limpid in the shade; Warm and sunny in the glade ; Rapid the current rolls In the river of lost souls. Still I linger by the stream As if in a pleasant dream, With the current running down Through the cafion, past the town, To the pleasant lands that lie Underneath a southern sky. Let the snow rest on the hills, Let the snow melt in the rills, So the shining volume flows Where the peach's pink bloom blows. .Lotos land in legend lies Hidden amid shadowed skies ; Here, a human Eden waits At the shining river's gates, Opening for willing hands Into fruitful orchard lands. Souls lost in such vale as this Wake again in lands of bliss. He who in these meadows stands Holds Love's Lotos in his hands. HOMES OF THE CUFF DWELLERS. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. 33 HOMES OF THE CLIFF-DWELLERS. k NE of the most attractive portions of Colorado, to the scientist, antiquarian and, indeed, the general tourist, is that part in which are found the cliff- dwellings of a long extinct race. A brief description of one found in Mancos cafion will serve as a characterization of all. Perched seven hundred feet above the valley, on a little ledge only just large enough to hold it, stands a two- story house made of finely-cut sandstone, each block about fourteen by six inches, accurately fitted and set in mortar, now harder than the stone itself. The floor is the ledge of rock and the roof the overhanging cliff. There are three rooms on the ground floor, each one six by nine feet, with partition walls of faced stone. Traces of a floor which once separated the upper from the lower story still remain. Each of the stories is six feet in height and all the rooms are nicely plastered and painted what now looks a dull brick red color, with a white band along the floor. The windows are square apertures with no signs of glaz- ing, commanding a view of the whole valley for many miles. The illustration shows a fortified watch-tower, indi- cating that these strange cliff-dwelling people were pre- pared to resist assault. Traditions are few and of history there is nothing concerning this lost race. Their ruined houses only remain and some broken fragments of the implements made use of in war and peace. Typical cliff- dwellings are found near Espanola, the southern terminus of the New Mexico extension of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad, and in the Animas valley, twenty-five miles south of Durango. Researches are in progress concerning these extremely interesting ruins and new facts are ^ being developed concerning their architecture, but it is quite improbable that any certain light will ever be thrown on their origin or history. 34 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. HOMES OF THE CLIFF-DWELLERS, HEADLANDS OF HOVEN-WKEP. STANLEY WOOD. In the sad Southwest, in the mystical Sunland, Far from the toil and the turmoil of gain; Hid in the heart of the only the one land Beloved of the Sun, and bereft of the rain; The one weird land where the wild winds blowing, Sweep with a wail o'er the plains of the dead, A ruin, ancient beyond all knowing, Rears its head. On the cafion's side, in the ample hollow, .That the keen winds carved in ages past, The Castle walls, like the nest of a swallow, Have clung and have crumbled to this at last The ages since man's foot has rested Within these walls, no man may know; For here the fierce grey eagle nested Long ago. Above those walls the crags lean over, Below, they dip to the river's bed; Between, fierce-winged creatures hover, Beyond, the plain's wild waste is spread. No foot has climbed the pathway dizzy, That crawls away from the blasted heath, Since last it felt the ever busy. Foot of Death. In that haunted castle it must be haunted, For men have lived here, and men have died, And maidens loved, and lovers daunted, Have hoped and feared, have laughed and sighed- In that haunted Castle the dust has drifted, But the eagles only may hope to see What shattered Shrines and what Altars rifted, There may be. RHYMES 01- THE ROCKIES. 35 The white, bright rays of the sunbeam sought it, The cold, clear light of the moon fell here, The west wind sighed, and the south wind brought It, Songs of Summer year after year. Runes of Summer, but mute and runeless, The Castle stood; no voice was heard, Save the harsh, discordant, wild and tuneless Cry of bird. The spring rains poured, and the torrent rifted A deeper way ; the foam-flakes fell, Held for a moment poised and lifted, Down to a fiercer whirlpool's hell. On the Castle tower no guard, in wonder, Paused in his marching to and fro, For on the turret the mighty thunder Found no foe. No voice of Spring no Summer glories May wake the warders from their sleep, Their graves are made by the sad Dolores, And the barren headlands of Hoven-weep. Their graves are nameless their race forgotten, Their deeds, their words, their fate, are one With the mist, long ages past begotten, Of the Sim. Those castled cliffs they made their dwelling, They lived and loved, they fought and fell, No faint, far voice comes to us telling More than those crumbling walls can tell. They lived their life, their fate fulfilling, Then drew their last faint, faltering breath, Their hearts, congealed, clutched by the chilling Hand of Death. Dismantled towers, and turrets broken. Like grim and war-worn braves who keep A silent guard, with grief unspoken Watch o'er the graves by the Hoven-weep. The nameless graves of a race forgotten ; Whose deeds, whose words, whose fate are one With the mist, long ages past beeotten, Of the Sun. THE ROYAL GORGE. RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. 37 THE ROYAL GORGE. THE crowning wonder of this wonderful Denver & Rio Grande Railroad is the Royal Gorge. Situated between Cafion City and Salida, it is easy of access either from Denver or Pueblo. After the entrance of the caflon has been made, surprise and almost terror comes. The train rolls around a long curve close under a wall of black and banded granite, beside which the ponderous locomotive shrinks to a mere dot, as if swinging on some pivot in the heart of the mountain, or captured by a centripetal force that would never resign its grasp. Almost a whole circle is accomplished and the grand amphitheatrical sweep of the wall shows no break in its smooth and zenith-cutting fa9ade. Will the journey end here? Is it a mistake that this crevice goes through the range? Does not all this mad water gush from some powerful spring, or boil out of a subterranean channel impenetrable to us? No, it opens. Resisting centripetal, centrifugal force claims the train and it breaks away at a tangent past the edge or round the corner of the great black \vall which compelled its detour and that of the river before it. Now, \vhat glories of rock-piling confront the wide distended eye. How those sharp-edged cliffs, standing with upright heads that play at hand-ball with the clouds, alternate with one another, so that first the right, then the left, then the right one beyond strike our view, each one half obscured by its fellow in front, each showing itself level-browed with its comrades as we come even with it, each a score of hundreds of dizzy feet in height, rising perpendicular from the water and the track, splintered atop into airy pinnacles, braced behind against the almost continental mass through which the chasm has been cleft. This is the Royal Gorge ' 38 RHYMES OF THE ROCKIES. THE ROYAL GORGE. G. G. FERGUSON. In the Royal Gorge I stand, With its mountain forms around me, With infinity behind me and infinity before; Cliff and chasm on every hand, Peaks and pinnacles surround me; At my feet the river rushes with its never-ceasing roar. Oh! the power that piled these wonders, As the mountains took their stations; As a great red belt rose upward in a glittering zone of fire. Oh! the crash of blended thunders Shaking earth to its foundations, As each struggling cliff rose upward, climbing higher, ever highe? Oh ! the crashing and the groaning, And the deep and awful shudder As that great red belt was parted and the mountains crashed in twain ; And the Arkansas came roaring, Raging with its dreadful thunder, Sweeping through the mighty chasm dashing madly toward the main Oh! this myriad crested canon, With its walls of massive marble, With the granite and red sandstone piled in peaks that pierce the sky , Where no bird dare dip its pinion In the narrow veil of azure, Where the solemn shadows linger o'er the river rolling by. Mortal ! ere you enter here, Pause and bare thy brow before Him, You are entering a temple which the Mighty One did rear. Put thy shoes from off thy feet, And with sacred awe adore Him, Throned in awful might and majesty, the Great One dwelleth here. 4