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 lie, 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,)
The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen,