Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By WalterLearned

980 The Last Reservation

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.