Begun so bravely; not a trace
Of her, the woman pioneer
Of all the great Northwest; no place
Bore mark, or sign, except a mound—
A nameless heap of this so hallowed ground;
And not far off some gnarled trees,
That might have borne imperfect fruit:—
I turned my reverent steps to these,
As honoring every branch, and root,
On which I gazed with misty eyes;
Then down the little valley glanced,
And lo, oh exquisite surprise!
Her blood-red poppies waved and danced
O'er all the meadow, bright and gay,
As when they pleased her babe at play.
"These are your monument," I cried,
"O noble woman, foully slain!
Blooming with every summmer-tide,
And needing only sun and rain.
Here in this wilderness they spread
Your story new, from year to year,
As your dear blood as crimson red,
As deathless as your virtues dear.
Here in this vale of Wa-ii-lat-pu
Each wandering zephyr speaks of you.
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