“The Only Good Indian Is A Dead Indian”

So there he lies, redeemed at last! His knees drawn tense, just as he fell And shrieked out his soul in a battle-yell; One hand with the rifle still clutched fast; One stretched straight out, the fingers clenched In the knotted roots of the sun-bleached grass; His head flung back on the tangled mass Of raven mane, the war-plume wrenched Awry and torn; the painted face Still foe-wards turned, the white teeth bare ’Twixt the livid lips, the wide-eyed glare, The bronze cheek gaped by battle-trace In dying rage rent fresh apart:-- A strange expression for one all good!-- On his naked breast a splotch of blood Where the lead Evangel cleft his heart.

So there he lies at last made whole, Regenerate! Christ rest his soul!