By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In habit for the chase array'd, 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. TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW.* Ar Eutaw Springs the valiant died; Their limbs with dust are cover'd o'erWeep 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 the 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; Sigh 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 wo; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear-but left the shield. Led by the conquering genius, GREENE, Who, flying, still their arrows threw ; TO AN OLD MAN. WHY, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan Beneath a weight of years and wo; Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, And age proclaims, ""Tis time to go." The Battle of Eutaw, South Carolina, was fought September 8, 1781. To willows sad and weeping yews And spring shall bloom, but not for you. Why so perplex'd with cares and toil To rest upon this darksome road? "Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil, A barren and a bleak abode. Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care, These dregs of life are bought too dear; "Tis better far to die, than bear The torments of life's closing year. Subjected to perpetual ills, A thousand deaths around us grow: The frost the tender blossom kills, And roses wither as they blow. Cold, nipping winds your fruits assail; The breeze, that gently ought to blow, Swells to a storm, and rends the main; The sun, that charm'd the grass to grow, Turns hostile, and consumes the plain; The mountains waste, the shores decay, Once purling streams are dead and dry— "Twas Nature's work-'tis Nature's play, And Nature says, that all must die. Yon flaming lamp, the source of light, In chaos dark may shroud his beam, And leave the world to mother Night, A farce, a phantom, or a dream. What now is young, must soon be old: Whate'er we love, we soon must leave: Now hope the longing soul employs, For, lo! the treasure is possess'd. Those monarchs proud, that havoc spread, The grandeur of this earthly round, Mere emptiness and vanity. Some real world once more may be assign'd, Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep, Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep! THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND. In spite of all the learn'd have said, 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 dress'd, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that knows no rest. His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of stone, Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, 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 play'd! 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. *The North American Indians bury their dead in a sitting posture; decorating the corpse with wampum, the images of birds, quadrupeds, &c.: and (if that of a warrior) with bows, arrows, tomahawks, and other military weapons. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, The painted chief and pointed spear; TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMERICANS WHO FELL AT EUTAW.* AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died; Their limbs with dust are cover'd o'erWeep 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 the 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; Sigh 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 wo; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear-but left the shield. Led by the conquering genius, GREENE, The Britons they compell'd to fly: None distant viewed the fatal plain; None grieved, in such a cause to die. But like the Parthians, 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. TO AN OLD MAN. WHY, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan Beneath a weight of years and wo; Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown, And age proclaims, ""Tis time to go." The Battle of Eutaw, South Carolina, was fought September 8, 1781. To willows sad and weeping yews And spring shall bloom, but not for you. Why so perplex'd with cares and toil To rest upon this darksome road? "Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil, A barren and a bleak abode. Constrain'd to dwell with pain and care, These dregs of life are bought too dear; "Tis better far to die, than bear The torments of life's closing year. Subjected to perpetual ills, A thousand deaths around us grow: The frost the tender blossom kills, And roses wither as they blow. Cold, nipping winds your fruits assail; Swells to a storm, and rends the main; The sun, that charm'd the grass to grow, Turns hostile, and consumes the plain; The mountains waste, the shores decay, Once purling streams are dead and dry"Twas Nature's work-'tis Nature's play, And Nature says, that all must die. Yon flaming lamp, the source of light, In chaos dark may shroud his beam, And leave the world to mother Night, A farce, a phantom, or a dream. What now is young, must soon be old: Whate'er we love, we soon must leave: Now hope the longing soul employs, For, lo! the treasure is possess'd. Those monarchs proud, that havoc spread, The grandeur of this earthly round, Give me the stars, give me the skies, Give me the heaven's remotest sphere, Above these gloomy scenes to rise Of desolation and despair. Those native fires, that warm'd the mind, Now languid grown, too dimly glow, Joy has to grief the heart resign'd, And love, itself, is changed to wo. The joys of wine are all you boast,— These, for a moment, damp your pain; The gleam is o'er, the charm is lost And darkness clouds the soul again. Then seek no more for bliss below, Where real bliss can ne'er be found; Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow, And fairer flowers bedeck the ground; Where plants of life the plains invest, And green eternal crowns the year :The little god, that warms the breast, Is weary of his mansion here. Like Phospher, sent before the day, His height meridian to regain, The dawn arrives-he must not stay To shiver on a frozen plain. Life's journey past, for fate prepare,— "Tis but the freedom of the mind; Jove made us mortal-his we are, To Jove be all our cares resign'd. COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND.* ILLUSTRIOUS monarch of Iberia's soil, Shine forth the patron and the prince of art. While yet Columbus breathes the vital air, Grant his request to pass the western main: Reserve this glory for thy native soil, And, what must please thee more, for thy own reign. Of this huge globe, how small a part we know— Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny? How disproportion'd to the mighty deep The lands that yet in human prospect lie! Does Cynthia, when to western skies arrived, Spend her moist beam upon the barren main, And ne'er illume with midnight splendour, she, The natives dancing on the lightsome green? Should the vast circuit of the world contain Such wastes of ocean and such scanty land? "Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so; I think more nobly of the Almighty hand. *Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting the court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new continent, which he imagined to exist somewhere in the western parts of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to address King Ferdinand in the above stanzas. Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round To light mere waves and monsters of the seas! No; be there must, beyond the billowy waste, Islands, and men, and animals, and trees. An unremitting flame my breast inspires To seek new lands amid the barren waves, Where, falling low, the source of day descends, And the blue sea his evening visage laves. Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:* "The time may come, when numerous years are past, When ocean will unloose the bands of things, Far, far away, where none have roved before; Nor will the world's remotest region be Gibraltar's rock, or THULE'S savage shore." Fired at the theme, I languish to depart; Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail; He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep; Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale. Nor does he dread to miss the intended course, Though far from land the reeling galley stray, And skies above, and gulfy seas below, Be the sole objects seen for many a day. Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain The mystic magnet to the mortal eye: So late have we the guiding needle plann'd, Only to sail beneath our native sky? Ere this was known, the ruling power of all Form'd for our use an ocean in the land, Its breadth so small, we could not wander long, Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand. Short was the course, and guided by the stars, But stars no more must point our daring way; The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drowned, And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea, When southward we shall steer- -O grant my wish, Supply the bark, and bid Columbus sail, THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow, No roving foot shall crush thee here, Seneca, the poet, a native of Cordova in Spain: Seneca, Med., act iii., v. 375. |