And who four thousand miles will ride
And climb to heaven the Great Divide,
And find the way to Washington,
Through mountain canons, winter snows,
O'er streams where free the north wind blows?
Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla,
Four thousand miles, for Oregon?

II.

"An empire to be lost or won?
In youth to man I gave my all,
And naught is yonder mountain wall;
If but the will of Heaven be done,
It is not mine to live or die,
Or count the mountains low or high,
Or count the miles from Walla-Walla.
I, I will ride for Oregon!"
'Twas thus that Whitman made reply.

III.

"An empire to be lost or won?
Bring me my Cayuse pony, then,
And I will thread old ways again,
Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun.
'Twas on those altars of the air
I raised the flag, and saw below
The measureless Columbia flow;
The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer,
And gave myself to God anew,
And felt my spirit newly born;
And to my mission I'll be true,
And from the vale of Walla-Walla
I'll ride again for Oregon.

IV.

"I'm not my own; myself I've given,
To bear to savage hordes the Word;
If on the altars of the heaven
I'm called to die, it is the Lord.
The herald may not wait or choose,
'Tis his the summons to obey;
To do his best, or gain or lose,
To seek the Guide and not the way.
He must not miss the cross, and I
Have ceased to think of life or death;
My ark I've builded--heaven is nigh,
And earth is but a morning's breath!
Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring;
The hopes that seek myself are gone,
And from the vale of Walla-Walla
I'll ride again for Oregon."

V.

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