It is but lifeless, perishable flesh Earth, air, and water's ministering particles Resolved, their uses done. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, The Spirit is not there! 2. Often together have we talked of death; All doubtful things made clear; To view the depth of heaven! Begun the travel of Eternity! I look upon the stars, And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee. 3. And we have often said how sweet it were, To watch the friends we loved. Edmund! we did not err ! Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given A birth to holy thought, Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure. Edmund! we did not err ! Our best affections here They are not like the toys of infancy; We do not cast them off: Oh, if it could be so, It were indeed a dreadful thing to die! 4. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved; But in the lonely hour, But in the evening walk, Think that he companies thy solitude; Think that he holds with thee Mysterious intercourse; And, though remembrance wake a tear, WESTBURY, 1799. SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS. THE HURON'S ADDRESS TO THE DEAD. 1. BROTHER, thou wert strong in youth! For whom thou hadst sharpened the tomahawk's edge! Unhappy man was he On whom thine angry eye was fixed in fight! And he, who from thy hand Received the calumet, Blest Heaven, and slept in peace. 2. When the Evil Spirits seized thee, We bade the Jongler come And bring his magic aid; We circled thee in mystic dance, To free thee from their power. 3. Thou sit'st amongst us on thy mat, That traversed the forest track; The limbs that were active are stiff, 4. And where is that which in thy voice But the life and the feeling are gone. That thou hast ceased from war; "Twill be a joy like victory to them, For thou wert the scourge of their nation. 5. Brother, we sing thee the song of death; In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest; The bow shall be placed by thy side, And the shafts that are pointed and feathered for flight. To the Country of the Dead Lies the road that must be passed, By bridges narrow-walled, Where scarce the Soul can force its way, While the loose fabric totters under it. 6. Safely may our brother pass! Safely may he reach the fields. Where the sound of the drum and the shell Shall be heard from the Country of Souls! Shall come to welcome thee: The God of the Dead in his Bower Shall receive thee, and bid thee join The dance of eternal joy. 7. Brother, we pay thee the rites of death; WESTBURY, 1799. |