Sullen and dull, in the September day, On the bank of the river, They waited the boat that should bear them away From their poor homes forever. For progress strides on, and the order had gone To these wards of the nation: “Give us land and more room,” was the cry, “and move on To the next reservation.” With her babe, she looked back at her home ’neath the trees From which they were driven, Where the last camp-fire’s smoke, borne out on the breeze, Rose slowly toward heaven. Behind her, fair fields, and the forest and glade, The home of her nation; Around her, the gleam of the bayonet and blade Of civilization. Clasping close to her bosom the small dusky form With tender caressing, She bent down, on the cheek of her babe soft and warm A mother’s kiss pressing. A splash in the river—the column moves on Close-guarded and narrow, Noting as little the two that are gone As the fall of a sparrow. Only an Indian! Wretched, obscure, To refinement a stranger, And a babe, that was born in a wigwam as poor And rude as a manger. Moved on—to make room for the growth in the West Of a brave Christian nation, Moved on—thank God, forever at rest In the last reservation.
The Last Reservation
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