In spite of all the learn'd have said; <br />I still my old opinion keep, <br />The posture, that we give the dead, <br />Points out the soul's eternal sleep. <br /> <br />Not so the ancients of these lands -- <br />The Indian, when from life releas'd <br />Again is seated with his friends, <br />And shares gain the joyous feast. <br /> <br /> His imag'd birds, and painted bowl, <br />And ven'son, for a journey dress'd, <br />Bespeak the nature of the soul, <br />Activity, that knows no rest. <br /> <br />His bow, for action ready bent, <br />And arrows, with a head of stone, <br />Can only mean that life is spent, <br />And not the finer essence gone. <br /> <br />Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way. <br />No fraud upon the dead commit -- <br />Observe the swelling turf, and say <br />They do not lie, but here they sit. <br /> <br />Here still lofty rock remains, <br />On which the curious eye may trace, <br />(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) <br />The fancies of a older race. <br /> <br />Here still an aged elm aspires, <br />Beneath whose far -- projecting shade <br />(And which the shepherd still admires <br />The children of the forest play'd! <br /> <br />There oft a restless Indian queen <br />(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) <br />And many a barbarous form is seen <br />To chide the man that lingers there. <br /> <br />By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, <br />In habit for the chase array'd, <br />The hunter still the deer pursues, <br />The hunter and the deer, a shade! <br /> <br />And long shall timorous fancy see <br />The painted chief, and pointed spear, <br />And reason's self shall bow the knee <br />To shadows and delusions here.<br /><br />Philip Freneau<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-indian-burying-ground/
