The Outgoing Race

The mothers wish for no more daughters; There is no future before them. They bow their heads and their pride At the end of the many tribes' journey. The mothers weep over their children, Loved and unwelcome together, Who should have been dreamed, not born, Since there is no road for the Indian. The mothers see into the future, Beyond the end of that Chieftain Who shall be the last of the race Which allowed only death to a coward. The square, cold cheeks, lips firm-set, The hot, straight glance, and the throat-line, Held like a stag's on the cliff, Shall be swept by the night-winds, and vanish!