Men who have chosen the lonely way, men who have given the gift, Living for us in the lands to come, men who are lifting the mist; Draining the land on a fevered strand, damming the torrents that pour, Leaving their brand on the desert sand, men who have opened the door. Men who have ravished the wilderness, men who have followed the trail, Men who are sleeping the dreamless sleep, far in the innermost pale; Never the chant of the abbey's choir, only the wolves in the night, Finding a tomb in the deathless gloom, men who have finished the fight. What if they're careless--are we to judge slips that they make in the game? If we were men of a survey crew, God help us, we'd do the same. What if they sin? Are we free from that: it so, let us throw the stone, But few are the men who have kept the ten commands from the ancient throne. Men from the college or from the farm, men of the wandering breed, Men of the 'Varsity's honored roll, men whom the future will need; Men who are young, and have just begun, soon with the wilderness blend, Men who are grey in the work to-day, men who are nearing the end. Men still living yet men who are dead, men who are buried at home, Living afresh in the loneliness, men who forever must roam; Men with a name that is not the same as once in the days gone by, Men who have come with a secret dumb, men who have severed the tie. We who have followed the beaten track, we who have chosen the home, We who have never desired to stray, to fathom the mystic zone; Spirits who dwell in a conquered sphere, deaf to the wandering call, Honor the men of the wilderness, men who have given their all. All for the years that are yet to come, sowers who never will reap, Send thro' the darkness the call of dawn, waking eternity's sleep; Hard in the hardness of harder things, hardness we never have seen, Men who have finished the Master's work, bridging the space between. We, who must reap of their toil to-day, harvesting seed they have sown, Are we forgetting the price they paid, these heroes we've never known? Are we neglecting the debt we owe, the debt we can ne'er repay, Carelessly viewing their finished work, indifferently on our way? Sons of the Survey, sons of the wild, sons of the prodigal son, Boys who are treading the lonely way, fellows of whom I have sung; Let us remember the deeds they've done, leaving forever their name, Lettered in gold, and the story told, for aye on the scroll of fame. THE BREAKER OF THE TRAIL (The Spirit of the Land to the Old Pioneer)