Page:How Marcus Whitman Saved Oregon.djvu/203



The woman of proud, heroic worth,

Who must part from him, if she wept at all,

Wept as she gathered whatever he

Might need for the outfit on his way. 181

Fame for the man who rode that day

Into the wilds at his Country's call;

And for her who waited for him a year

On that wild Pacific coast, a tear!

Then he said "Good-bye!" and with firm-set lips

Silently rode from his cabin door

Just as the sun rose over the tips

Of the phantom mountain that loomed before

The woman there in the cabin door,

With a dread at her heart she had not known

When she, with him, had dared to cross

The Great Divide. None better than she

Knew what the terrible ride would cost

As he rode, and she waited, each alone.

Whether all were gained or all were lost,

No message of either gain or loss

Could reach her; never a greeting stir

Her heart with sorrow or gladness; he

In another year would come back to her

If all went well; and if all went ill—

Ah, God! could even her courage still

The pain at her heart? If the blinding snow

Were his winding-sheet, she would never know;

If the Indian arrow pierced his side,

She would never know where he lay and died;

If the icy mountain torrents drowned

His cry for help, she would hear no sound!

Nay, none would hear, save God, who knew

What she had to bear, and he had to do.

The clattering hoof-beats died away

On the Walla Walla. Ah! had she known

They would echo in history still to-day

As they echoed then from her heart of stone!

He had left the valley. The mountains mock

His coming. Behind him, broad and deep,