Selections from American Poetry: With Special Reference to Poe, Longfellow ...

But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell :

On lighter wings we bid you fly,
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,

And in this ocean die;

Here bigger bees than you might sink,

Even bees full six feet high.

Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.°

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear,

And your grave will be this glass of wine,
Your epitaph - a tear

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat;
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

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 wants 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,

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.

EUTAW SPRINGS°

AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died:
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er;
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin, they

Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite thy gentle breast, and say

The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;

Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble groves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear:
'Tis not the beauty of the morn

That proves the evening shall be clear.

They saw their injured country's woe,
The flaming town, the wasted field;

Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;

They took the spear

but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering standards, Greene,°
The Britons they compelled to fly:
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved in such a cause to die-

But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from nature's limits thrown,

We trust they find a happier land,

A bright Phoebus of their own.