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.

Philip Freneau

The Wild Honey Suckle

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,

Hid in this silent, dull retreat,

Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,

Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,

No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,

And planted here he guardian shade,

And sent soft waters murmuring by;

Thus quietly thy summer goes,

Thy days declining to repose,

Smit with those charms, that must decay,

I grieve to see your future doom;

They died--nor were those flowers more gay,

The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power

Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews

At first thy little being came:

If nothing once, you nothing lose,

For when you die you are the same;

The space between, is but an hour,

The frail duration of a flower.

Philip Freneau

On Retirement

A HERMIT'S house beside a stream

With forests planted round,

Whatever it to you may seem

More real happiness I deem

Than if I were a monarch crowned.

A cottage I could call my own

Remote from domes of care;

A little garden, walled with stone,

The wall with ivy overgrown,

A limpid fountain near,

Would more substantial joys afford,

More real bliss impart

Than all the wealth that misers hoard,

Than vanquished worlds, or worlds restored--

Mere cankers of the heart!

Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride,

How little can your wants supply!--

'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide--

You act as if you only had

To triumph--not to die!

Philip Freneau

The Vernal Age

WHERE the pheasant roosts at night,

Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,

Where the evening breezes sigh

Solitary, there stray I.

Close along the shaded stream,

Source of many a youthful dream,

Where branchy cedars dim the day

There I muse, and there I stray.

Yet, what can please amid this bower,

That charmed the eye for many an hour!

The budding leaf is lost to me,

And dead the bloom on every tree.

The winding stream, that glides along,

The lark, that tunes her early song,

The mountain's brow, the sloping vale,

The murmuring of the western gale,

Have lost their charms!--the blooms are gone!

Trees put a darker aspect on,

The stream disgusts that wanders by,

And every zephyr brings a sigh.

Great guardian of our feeble kind!--

Restoring Nature, lend thine aid!

And o'er the features of the mind

Renew those colors, that must fade,

When vernal suns forbear to roll,

And endless winter chills the soul.

Philip Freneau

To the Memory of the Brave Americans

Under General Greene, in South Carolina,

who fell in the action of September 8, 1781

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 or ruin, they

Can yet be thought to claim a tear,

O smite your 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;

Sign for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves 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 genius, 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 brighter sunshine of their own.

Philip Freneau

Ode

GOD save the Rights of Man!

Give us a heart to scan

Blessings so dear:

Let them be spread around

Wherever man is found,

And with the welcome sound

Ravish his ear.

Let us with France agree,

And bid the world be free,

While tyrants fall!

Let the rude savage host

Of their vast numbers boast--

Freedom's almight trust

Laughs at them all!

Though hosts of slaves conspire

To quench fair Gallia's fire,

Still shall they fail:

Though traitors round her rise,

Leagu'd with her enemies,

To war each patriot flies,

And will prevail.

No more is valor's flame

Devoted to a name,

Taught to adore--

Soldiers of Liberty

Disdain to bow the knee,

But ateach Equality

To every shore.

The world at last will join

To aid thy grand design,

Dear Liberty!

To Russia's frozen lands

The generous flame expands:

On Afric's burning sands

Shall man be free!

In this our western world

Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd

Through all its shores!

May no destructive blast

Our heaven of joy o'ercast,

May Freedom's fabric last

While time endures.

If e'er her cause require!--

Should tyrants e'er aspire

To aim their stroke,

May no proud despot daunt--

Should he his standard plant,

Freedom will never want

Her hearts of oak!

Philip Freneau

On the Universality and Other Attributes of the God of Nature

ALL that we see, about, abroad,

What is it all, but nature's God?

In meaner works discovered here

No less than in the starry sphere.

In seas, on earth, this God is seen;

All that exist, upon Him lean;

He lives in all, and never strayed

A moment from the works He made:

His system fixed on general laws

Bespeaks a wise creating cause;

Impartially He rules mankind

And all that on this globe we find.

Unchanged in all that seems to change,

Unbounded space is His great range;

To one vast purpose always true,

No time, with Him, is old or new.

In all the attributes divine

Unlimited perfectings shine;

In these enwrapt, in these complete,

All virtues in that centre meet.

This power doth all powers transcend,

To all intelligence a friend,

Exists, the greatest and the best

Throughout all the worlds, to make them blest.

All that He did He first approved,

He all things into being loved;

O'er all He made He still presides,

For them in life, or death provides.

Philip Freneau

To Mr. Blanchard, the Celebrated Aeronaut in America

      Nil mortalibus ardui est

      Caelum ipsum petimus stultitia

   :             Horace

FROM Persian looms the silk he wove

No Weaver meant should trail above

The surface of the earth we tread,

To deck the matron or the maid.

But you ambitious, have design'd

With silk to soar above mankind:--

On silk you hang your splendid car

And mount towards the morning star.

How can you be so careless--gay:

Would you amidst red lightnings play;

Meet sulphurous blasts, and fear them not--

Is Phaeton's sad fate forgot?

Beyond our view you mean to rise--

And this Balloon, of mighty size,

Will to the astonish'd eye appear,

An atom wafted thro' the air.

Where would you rove? amidst the storms,

Departed Ghosts, and shadowy forms,

Vast tracks of aether, and, what's more,

A sea of space without a shore!--

Would you to Herschell find the way--

To Saturn's moons, undaunted stray;

Or, wafted on a silken wing,

Alight on Saturn's double ring?

Would you the lunar mountains trace,

Or in her flight fair Venus chase;

Would you, like her, perform the tour

Of sixty thousand miles an hour?--

To move at such a dreadful rate

He must propel, who did create--

By him, indeed, are wonders done

Who follows Venus round the sun.

At Mars arriv'd, what would you see!--

Strange forms, I guess--not such as we;

Alarming shapes, yet seen by none;

For every planet has its own.

If onward still, you urge your flight

You may approach some satellite,

Some of the shining train above

That circle round the orb of Jove.

Attracted by so huge a sphere

You might become a stranger here:

There you might be, if there you fly,

A giant sixty fathoms high.

May heaven preserve you from that fate!

Here, men are men of little weight:

There, Polypheme, it might be shown,

Is but a middle sized baboon.--

This ramble through, the aether pass'd,

Pray tell us when you stop at last;

Would you with gods that aether share,

Or dine on atmospheric air?--

You have a longing for the skies,

To leave the fogs that round us rise,

To haste your flight and speed your wings

Beyond this world of little things.

Your silken project is too great;

Stay here, Blanchard, 'till death or fate

To which, yourself, like us, must bow,

Shall send you where you want to go.

Yes--wait, and let the heav'ns decide;--

Your wishes may be gratified,

And you shall go, as swift as thought,

Where nature has more finely wrought,

Her Chrystal spheres, her heavens serene;

A more sublime, enchanting scene

Than thought depicts or poets feign.

Philip Freneau

On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin

THUS,some tall tree that long hath stood

The glory of its native wood,

By storms destroyed, or length of years,

Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,

To dust returns by slow decays:

But, when its destined years are o'er,

We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,

The world laments your exit made;

So long befriended by your art,

Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!--

When monarchs tumble to the ground,

Successors easily are found:

But, matchless FRANKLIN ! what a few

Can hope to rival such as YOU,

Who seized from kings their sceptered pride,

And turned the lightning darts aside.

Philip Freneau