“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!