He disappeared, as not his own,
      He heard the warning ice winds sigh;
    The smoky sun-flames o’er him shone,
      On whitened altars of the sky,
    As up the mountain-sides he rose;
      The wandering eagle round him wheeled,
    The partridge fled, the gentle roes,
      And oft his Cayuse pony reeled
    Upon some dizzy crag, and gazed
      Down cloudy chasms, falling storms,
    While higher yet the peaks upraised
      Against the winds their giant forms. 
    On, on and on, past Idaho,
      On past the mighty Saline sea,
    His covering at night the snow,
      His only sentinel a tree. 
    On, past Portneuf’s basaltic heights,
      On where the San Juan Mountains lay,
    Through sunless days and starless nights,
      Toward Taos and far Sante Fe. 
    O’er table-lands of sleet and hail,
      Through pine-roofed gorges, canons cold,
    Now fording streams incased in mail
      Of ice, like Alpine knights of old,
    Still on, and on, forgetful on,
      Till far behind lay Walla-Walla,
    And far the fields of Oregon.

VI.

     The winter deepened, sharper grew
      The hail and sleet, the frost and snow;
     Not e’en the eagle o’er him new,
      And scarce the partridge’s wing below. 
     The land became a long white sea,
      And then a deep with scarce a coast;
     The stars refused their light, till he
      Was in the wildering mazes lost. 
     He dropped rein, his stiffened hand
      Was like a statue’s hand of clay! 
    “My trusty beast, ’tis the command;
      Go on, I leave to thee the way. 
     I must go on, I must go on,
      Whatever lot may fall to me,
     On, ‘tis for others’ sake I ride—­
      For others I may never see,
     And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide,
      Not for myself, O Walla-Walla,
     Not for myself, O Washington,
     But for thy future, Oregon.”

VII.

    And on and on the dumb beast pressed
      Uncertain, and without a guide,
    And found the mountain’s curves of rest
      And sheltered ways of the Divide. 
    His feet grew firm, he found the way
      With storm-beat limbs and frozen breath,
    As keen his instincts to obey
      As was his master’s eye of faith—­
    Still on and on, still on and on,
      And far and far grew Walla-Walla,
    And far the fields of Oregon.

VIII.

     That spring, a man with frozen feet
      Came to the marble halls of state,
     And told his mission but to meet
      The chill of scorn, the scoff of hate. 
    “Is Oregon worth saving?” asked
      The treaty-makers from the coast;