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,
