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, with war-plume wrenched
Awry and torn; the painted face
Still foewards 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!