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Unaided grief and blighted hope, Midst savage beasts of prey—The fate of poor deserted Scott Is wrapped in mystery!
Our toils are done, our perils o'er— The weary pilgrims' bandHave reached Columbia's fertile shore— That far-famed happy land.
O'er mountains high and burning plains, Three thousand miles or more—We are here; but who can e'er explain Or count the trials o'er?
Such clouds of mist hang round the scene, O'er which we have no control;It's like a half-remembered dream, Or tale that's long been told.E. M.Oregon City, December, 1850.Oregon Spectator, January 9, 1851.
