Under General Greene, in South Carolina, who fell in the action of September 8, 1781

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
   Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—
Weep 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 a 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 woe;
   The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
   They took the spear—but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
   The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
   None grieved, in such a cause to die—

But, like the Parthian, 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.

This poem is in the public domain.

In spite of all the learn’d have said,
   I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,
   Points out the soul’s eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands--
   The Indian, when from life releas’d,
Again is seated with his friends,
   And shares again the joyous feast. °

His imag’d birds, and painted bowl,
   And ven’son, 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,
Can only mean that life is spent,
   And not the finer essence gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
   No fraud upon the dead commit,
Yet, marking 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 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.

By midnight moons, o’er moistening dews,
   In habit for the chase arrayed,
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.

This poem is in the public domain.