Far brighter scenes a future age, The muse predicts, these States will hail, Whose genius may the world engage, Whose deeds may over death prevail, And happier systems bring to view, Than all the eastern sages knew. [1784.] [293] First published in Bailey's _Pocket Almanac_ for 1785, and reprinted almost without change in the later editions of Freneau. Text from the edition of 1809. [294] (A debt that reason deems amiss).--_Ed. 1786._ [295] And half to slavery more refin'd.--_Ib._ THE SEASONS MORALIZED[296] They who to warmer regions run, May bless the favour of the sun, But seek in vain what charms us here, Life's picture, varying with the year. Spring, and her wanton train advance Like Youth to lead the festive dance, All, all her scenes are mirth and play, And blushing blossoms own her sway. The Summer next (those blossoms blown) Brings on the fruits that spring had sown, Thus men advance, impelled by time, And Nature triumphs in her prime. Then Autumn crowns the beauteous year, The groves a sicklier aspect wear; And mournful she (the lot of all) Matures her fruits, to make them fall. Clad in the vestments of a tomb, Old age is only Winter's gloom-- Winter, alas! shall spring restore, But youth returns to man no more. [296] First published in Bailey's _Pocket Almanac_ for 1785. The edition of 1809 is used. ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL LAURENS[297] Since on her plains this generous chief expired, Whom sages honoured, and whom France admired;[298] Does Fame no statues to his memory raise, Nor swells one column to record his praise Where her palmetto shades the adjacent deeps, Affection sighs, and Carolina weeps! Thou, who shalt stray where death this chief confines, Revere the patriot, subject of these lines: Not from the dust the muse transcribes his name, And more than marble shall declare his fame Where scenes more glorious his great soul engage, Confest thrice worthy in that closing page When conquering Time to dark oblivion calls, The marble totters, and the column falls. LAURENS! thy tomb while kindred hands adorn, Let northern muses, too, inscribe your urn.-- Of all, whose names on death's black list appear, No chief, that perished, claimed more grief sincere, Not one, Columbia, that thy bosom bore, More tears commanded, or deserved them more! Grief at his tomb shall heave the unwearied sigh, And honour lift the mantle to her eye: Fame through the world his patriot name shall spread, By heroes envied and by monarchs read: Just, generous, brave--to each true heart allied: The Briton's terror, and his country's pride; For him the tears of war-worn soldiers ran, The friend of freedom, and the friend of man. Then what is death, compared with such a tomb, Where honour fades not, and fair virtues bloom; When silent grief on every face appears, The tender tribute of a nation's tears;