What forced you here we cannot know, And you will scarcely tell, 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 die, 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) 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. EUTAW SPRINGS