As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken and their springs
are dried up. Their cabins are in dust. Their Council fires have long since gone out on
the shores and their war cry is fast dying away to the untrodden West.
Slowly and sadly they climb the mountains and read their doom in the setting sun.
They are shrinking before the mighty tide, which is pressing them away. They must
soon hear the roar of the last wave that will settle over them forever.
Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder
on the structure of their disturbed remains and wonder to what manner of person they
belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let
these be faithful to their crude virtues as men, and pay tribute to their unhappy fate as
Said by General Sam Houston in a speech to the U.S. Senate