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 our 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 who 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.