Did weep, like Rizpah, o'er the slaughtered brave,
Unnamed, unhonored ere its pillared breast
Arose to take the record of their names,
And of their valor, teach a race unborn.
The memories of red war, how thick they spring
Among these flowers. Here in fierce strife have stood
Indian and white man, aye! and they whose faith
Was in the same Redeemer, through whose breasts
Flowed the same kindred blood-drop, casting off
The name of brother, in their cradle learned,
Have madly met, I may not tell you how.
History hath stained her pencil and her page
With these dark deeds, and ye may read them there.
Yet would I tell one tale of Wyoming,
Before we part. There was a pleasant home,
In times long past. A little, crystal brook.
Where water-cresses grew, went singing by,
While the ripe apples, gleaming thro' the boughs,
And in its humble garden, many a bush
Of scarlet berries, sprinkled here and there
With fragrant herbs, sage and the bee-loved thyme,
Betokened thrift and comfort.
Once, as closed
The autumn-day, the mother, by her side
Held her young children, with her storied lore,
Fast by her chair, a bold and bright-eyed boy,
Stood, statue-like, while closer, at her feet,
