THE DEAD FRIEND. 1. NOT to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Descend to contemplate The form that once was dear! The Spirit is not there Which kindled that dead eye, Which throbb'd in that cold heart, Which in that motionless hand Hath met thy friendly grasp. The Spirit is not there! It is but lifeless perishable flesh That moulders in the grave; Earth, air, and water's ministering particles Now to the elements Resolved, their uses done. Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved, The Spirit is not there! 2. Often together have we talk'd of death; All doubtful things made clear; To view the depth of Heaven! O Edmund! thou hast first I look upon the stars, And think that thou art there, Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee. 3. And we have often said how sweet it were Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given A birth to holy thought, Hast kept me from the world unstain'd 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, 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. 204 SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS. THE HURON'S ADDRESS TO THE DEAD. 1. BROTHER, thou wert strong in youth! For whom thou hadst sharpen'd the tomahawk's edge! On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight! Received the calumet, Blest Heaven, and slept in peace. 2. When the Evil Spirits seized thee, To free thee from their power. 3. Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, 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; 5. Brother, we sing thee the song of death; And the shafts that are pointed and feather'd for flight. To the country of the Dead Where scarce the Soul can force its way, 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! The Spirits of thy Sires Shall come to welcome thee: The God of the Dead in his Bower 7. Brother, we pay thee the rites of death, Westbury, 1799. |