(The Song of the Wild)
Rugged and dark are my paths to fame,
Shadowed by men who have gone,
Buried, but rising to point the way
To he who shall seek the dawn;
Haggard and grey, be ye not afraid,
But greet with a fearless hand
The shapes that await in the silence,
My sentinels of the land.
Hasten their rest, be ye undismayed,
For weary and tired they be,
And long have they waited your coming,
For ever to set them free;
From a vigil long in the stillness,
To you, who are of the brand,
They call, they are waiting your answer,
These Sentinels in the land.
Don't you hear their cry? It is pregnant
With weariness; will you go?
For theirs was the price of an Empire,
And theirs was the seed to sow;
And theirs were the dreams of a nation,
Ah, will ye not understand
That ye were begotten to follow
My Sentinels in the land!
Will ye take the hand that they offer?
Or else will ye mock their pain?
Will ye heed the wail from the silence?
For, hark, 'tis the call again;
In the land of ages and myst'ry,
Your love they will e'er requite,
And there shall ye find of my treasure,
'Midst Sentinels of the night.