Philip Morin Freneau



                   The Indian Burying Ground


                   In spite of all the learned have said,
                   I still my old opinion keep;
                   The posture, that we give the dead,
                   Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

                   Not so the ancients of these lands —
                   The Indian, when from life released,
                   Again is seated with his friends,
                   And shares again the joyous feast.

                   His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
                   And venison, for a journey dressed,
                   Bespeak the nature of the soul,
                   Activity, that knows no rest.

                   His bow, for action ready bent,
                   And arrows, with a head of stone,
                   Can only mean that life is spent,
                   And not the old ideas gone.

                   Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
                   No fraud upon the dead commit —
                   Observe the swelling turf, and say
                   They do not lie, but here they sit.

                   Here still a lofty rock remains,
                   On which the curious eye may trace
                   (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
                   The fancies of a ruder race.

                   Here still an aged elm aspires,
                   Beneath whose far-projecting shade
                   (And which the shepherd still admires)
                   The children of the forest played!

                   There oft a restless Indian queen
                   (Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
                   And many a barbarous form is seen
                   To chide the man that lingers there.

                   By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews;
                   In habit for the chase arrayed,
                   The hunter still the deer pursues,
                   The hunter and the deer, a shade!

                   And long shall timorous fancy see
                   The painted chief, and pointed spear,
                   And Reason's self shall bow the knee
                   To shadows and delusions here.

                   1788


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