# Poems (Victor)/The Poppies of Wa-ii-lat-pu

THE POPPIES OF WA-II-LAT-PU.
Between the zones of ice and sun, Between the east seas and the west, Where boundless prairies stretch, where run Great rivers, born about the crest Of heaven-piercing mountains, hoar With centuries of unguessed time, Within whose murky gorges roar Vast cataracts, whose awful chime Shakes the tall spires of rock o'erhead, Where pines hang shivering with dread:
​Where tropic trees flaunt gaudy vines, Where northern firs stand dark and stern; By desert springs, in night-black mines, Where sun-scorched sand-plains blind and burn; From the Atlantic's rocky rim To the Pacific's steel-bound shore, We trace the trails, time cannot dim, The men of destiny have trod before, Leading an empire on a line Stretching from flashing brine to brine.
There is no place they have not been, The men of deeds and destiny; No spot so wild they have not seen, And measured it with dauntless eye. They in a common danger shared, Nor shrunk from toil, nor want nor pain, But sternly every peril dared, Just to be heroes, scorning gain. We, trembling, listen to the tale That turns the hardiest hearer pale.
Constrained to question why, and when, And how at first the impulse came Which parted these from other men, Leaving us often scarce a name For history's page. Yet these are they By whom the race unseen is led; ​Who blaze through untrod wilds the way Successive generations tread, Asking no more than this, to be Lords of themselves, in all things free.
Here is a rose. It grew above A grave in that fair tropic isle The poets name the home of love— Paul et Virginie. One can smile, Remembering that idyl sweet Of youthful passion, tender, pure, For though it ends in death, 'tis meet Such gentle souls should not endure; Their fragile natures, soft and warm, Are bruised to death in life's first storm.
Here is a relic some one brought From the far South Pacific seas; A souvenir of a battle fought For freedom by the Tahitese. The story stirs indignant blood, For wrongs inflicted on a race; Yet here, a lack of brotherhood, A feeling of the lowlier place In nature s plan for such as these, Dulls our indignant sympathies.
​"They are not fitted to survive," We say. "Why pain ourselves to feel The battle-throes in which they strive? Fate has decreed. Mistaken zeal Would meddle where it cannot mend, And lengthen woes it cannot cure; A champion may be not a friend; Enough for us that we endure The heat and burden of the day, In our own lives, in our own way."
There is a pang that strikes us through— When strong great natures bend and break— Or when the earnest and the true Are martyrs for their conscience sake. That gives a sense of wasteful loss, From which we feel a sharp recoil, A protest against crownless cross, 'Gainst hopes misplaced and fruitless toil; A verdict, by our hearts, that we Censure the ways of destiny.
Our protest gives the lonely trail, Or spring that bears some wanderer's name, The spell of an Arabian tale, Linking it to heroic fame. For dauntless daring led the way, ​And hope's strong magnet drew them on; What hopes they were no man can say, But we enjoy what they have won. We pass in safety where they found Only the dark and bloody ground.
Between the Rockies' peaks of snow And blue Columbia rolling free, From Washington to Mexico, From the Sierras to the sea, Our footsteps press historic ground, Albeit often all unknown. Storms level soon the simple mound, Time crumbles e'en the lettered stone; The wilderness the secret keeps Of him who in its bosom sleeps.
Not always. If perchance a seed The wanderer brought from home, should share The earth with him, and being freed, And fertilized, spring up more fair Than its fair ancestors at home, And spread, and cover all that spot With the sad story, writ in bloom, So that it could not be forgot— 'Twould match this tale I'm telling you— The Poppies of Wa-ii-lat-pu!
​Long years ago I chanced to meet Upon Nebraska's borderland, A gentle woman, pale and sweet, Who held within a slender hand Some crimson poppies. Such, I thought, Would well become her bronze-brown hair, In which a glint of sunshine caught Brightened the silver lurking there; A low-voiced woman, fair to see, Gifted with grace and courtesy.
We talked of flowers. I careless said That poppies were no loves of mine; I liked them for their brilliant red, Like sunlight through a vase of wine, But was content that they should lie Relieved against her soft dark dress; They pleased right well my artist eye, But failed to touch me ne'ertheless. She smiled: "They sweetness lack, 'tis true, But they appeal to me, from you.
As homely, tried, and constant friends, Or kindred we have always known; It is their homeliness that lends A grace we else might fail to own. They grew beside my mother's door, ​And bloomed despite my careless feet; They spread the grassy orchard o'er, And blossomed gaily 'mong the wheat— We never for their brightness paid— I love these careless things," she said.
At this I quoted Robbie Burns To prove her careless favorites frail; And thus we bandied words by turns, Barren of import to this tale, Till memories that were long-time dead Revived at touch of loving hands. "The sisters of these flowers," she said, "Are blooming in far-distant lands— In earth the sun last looks upon, Where rolls the rock-vexed Oregon."
"Ah!" then I asked to know the rest— What fate had plumed her poppy seeds, To bear them to that wondrous West, Where hardly winged fancy leads— So long the distance, strange the road. "Their wings were tender woman hands, And gentle feet, that heavenward trode In toiling to those savage lands." "And she who owned them?" "With her blood She sealed her Christian womanhood."
​"Her blood!" I thrilled with sudden pain, As one myself in dread of death, While she resumed the tale again, With saddened mein and bated breath. Yet there was much that caught my ear, Like martial airs blown over sea, And stirred my soul in spite of fear With waves of joyful poesy;— The theme was grand, the story laid In colors Homer might have spread.
'Tis told in history now; but hear The tale her poppies brought to mind: "'Twas in the springtime of the year, And twenty years ago, I find On looking back. My boy was then A babe—a lovely babe in truth— This year he takes his place with men— Thus time glides by and steals our youth. Yes, twenty years ago today, I gave those poppy seeds away.
"Our post was on the Papillion, That feeds the Platte—a half day's ride Beyond the Council Bluffs, among Smooth hills that closed on every side The view of other hills and vales, ​Each one as all its fellows green, Alternating with dimpling dales, And meadows silvered with the sheen Of rippling grass, that like the sea In billowy swells moved bright and free.
"From out this emerald waste there came One soft spring eve, two women dear, Who ran to me, and called my name, And kissed my cheek, with many a tear, As we had sisters been, whose ways Long parted, here together drew; I gave the loving Father praise Who brought them every danger through, And granted me to see a face Once more of my own sex and race."
"One moment: tell me why were you Apart from others of your kind." "The church appointed us to view The wilderness, and somewhere find A spot to found a mission. Here We fixed our post; and here we taught The blessed word from year to year." "And found your teaching come to naught?" "Ah, who shall say? We kept the faith; Fought the good fight, for life or death."
​"And those who came your heart to cheer?" "Were young wives, with their husbands bound To Oregon, on a frontier Beyond our West, and only found By months of toilsome travel, spent In cold and heat, in rain and sun, By day on horse, by night in tent, A journey each day new begun— For they must keep fast by the train Escorting them across the plain."
"The train?" "Ah, yes. St. Louis, then, Was but a post on the frontier; Recruiting camp for mountain men; French in its aspect, quaint and queer, Of long, low houses, white and neat, With corridors on every side; The people sitting in the street, Beneath the shadows cool and wide, While hunters, in half Indian dress, Made picturesque the quietness:
"A traders' depot and exchange, Where fleets of bateaux, from Orleans, Brought hunting outfits, and the strange, Barbaric gauds in which the queens Of mountain wigwams took delight: ​Fine scarlet blankets, bells, and beads, Gay ribbons, jingling anklets, bright, Soft silken kerchiefs for their heads, With arms designed for their lords' use, And white men's unrestrained abuse.
"These bateaux, with their pulsing oars, That 'gainst a mighty current beat; That glided betwixt murmurous shores, And moved with plashings low and sweet, Were then the river craft that plied Between St. Louis and Bellevue, Bringing each year, their freight beside, Such travelers as the mountains drew— Artists, and students, those who find In wildest wastes food for the mind.
"To meet them came long laden trains, Mules, Indian ponies, packed with spoil Of dammed-up streams, and marshy plains Made populous by the beavers' toil; With skins of otter, and the hides Of the great hump-backed buffalo; White traders, and their dusky brides, Decked out with gay barbaric show, And half-caste babes, whose bold black eyes Ne'er shrank in terror or surprise."
​"And so," I said, "they joined a train Of Indian traders and their wives? I own it draws me like a chain, The romance of these barbarous lives. I think I should have done as they, And gone out to the mighty West. But with the motive? Who shall say? We each pursue our special quest: Perchance I am not of the stuff Men take for stormsails." "'Tis enough
That they were," sighed she. "Yes, like you, They counted life naught, duty all; But zeal may be mistaken, too. Did they not follow at the call Of wife-love, more than God-love strong In most of us?" She spake: "No tongue Could have convinced them they were wrong, Though it with prophecies had rung Eloquent as Isaiah s page: No; for they felt a holy rage,
"Such as the prophets might have known, To conquer by their Christian faith, And by the sword of Christ alone To win their way, for life or death. The voice that called on them to go ​And teach the word to all the earth, Was not to them a sound of woe, But rather one of holy mirth: 'Rejoice,' it said, 'for victories won In name of my beloved son.'"
"'God moves in a mysterious way,'" I murmured, with a hidden thought: "To hear his voice was to obey; But they mistook the message brought." Then: "Tell me who those women were, Their names, their looks, their natures tell; For they were goddesses, and bear Homeric armor passing well. First of their race and sex to stand Alone unharmed in that far land."
She told me all. How both were good, Sweet Christian women, full of love, An honor to pure womanhood; But one had graciousness above Her serious sister, and her name, A fittingly descriptive one— Narcissa—from a flower came, As she suggested flower and sun; A stately blonde, with golden hair, And blue eyes 'neath a forehead fair.
​The other was of graver type, Dark-haired, and slight, of quiet mien; Her spirit showing strong, and ripe For action on whatever scene Her duty placed her; asking not, And caring nothing for applause; Herself, and self-love, all forgot In service of the Master's cause, With such devotion and restraint As in past ages made the saint.
"They could not tarry. But a day We had them with us. While they staid, We talked each fleeting hour away, Nor any pause in labor made, But worked the while we talked. I strove To add such comforts to their store, Too small at most, as anxious love Suggested, pained to do no more: And, added to more real needs, My little gift of poppy seeds."
"You knew they bloomed?" I asked. "In time A message came. She praised their hue And said they loved that soil and clime, And with a rich luxuriance grew Unknown to us. They made her walk ​About her humble garden sweet With homeward thoughts and homeward talk; They drew the little restless feet Of her girl-babe, who crowed and played, Delighted with the show they made."
"And then? What then?" "They passed to where Columbia's waters foam and flow, And parted company. I spare The sickening tale. Enough to know They with their husbands went among The restless wild men of the plains, And taught that love returned for wrong Will bring reward in priceless gains; Taught, with alternate hopes and fears, Their Christian faith for ten long years.
"Then came the end. The wild men tired Of straining after thoughts too high For their low level, and conspired To blot all out, and all deny. Narcissa Whitman fell. She whom I told you of, whose poppies grew, And pleased her baby with their bloom, Fell drenched in blood—her husband, too. Wolves tore her dainty flesh, and bare Her bones lay, in her long fair hair."
​Years passed. Fate placed my feet upon The self-same way those women trode; On me the prairie sunshine shone, With eager steps I pressed the road Which they, first of my sex and race To pass the Rockies' stony wall, Had honored, passing to their place Among the immortals. I recall The wonder that I felt to find The deepened ruts with roses lined.
Alas, not marked by these alone, The weary way from shore to shore; But a white line of bleaching bone Of worn-out oxen stretched before, With lonely wayside graves. 'Twas thus That first I learned the fearful price The nation gave to dower us With this fair land; the sacrifice Of hecatombs of beasts and men, By weariness, want, and foes in ambush slain.
This by the way. I stood, in time, By Walla Walla's gentle stream, In Wa-ii-lat-pu's vale, where crime Struck down a good man, and his dream. But, ah, no sign of that career ​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.
​The waving grass, the brookside grove, The tangled thickets of wild rose, And bending birch, that droops above The bed where Walla Walla flows; The glorious morns, the sultry noons, The blazoned sunsets of the plains, The starry nights, and white-fire moons, The golden fields of ripening grains, That prove this land, in God's great plan, The last, best heritage of man!
Yours was the first of womanhood Whose eyes beheld, whose mind could reach The heights where beauty, use and good, Stood beckoning; who longed to teach An untaught and unteachable race, To see, seize and enjoy. What though You failed of purpose? We still trace The God-word thought, and feel and know Your life's deep lesson, brought to view In the red poppies of Wa-ii-lat-pu.
Walla Walla, 1877.