Research Paper (American Lit)

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Philip Freneau (1752-1832)

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA, AND PEOPLEING THE WESTERN COUNTRY TO western woods, and lonely plains, Palemon from the crowd departs, Where nature's wildest genius reigns, To tame the soil, and plant the arts— What wonders there shall freedom show, What mighty States successive grow! From Europe's proud, despotic shores Hither the stranger takes his way, And in our new found world explores A happier soil, a milder sway, Where no proud despot holds him down, No slaves insult him with a crown. What charming scenes attract the eye, On wild Ohio's savage stream Here nature reigns, whose works outvie The boldest pattern art can frame; Here ages past have roll'd away, And forests bloom'd—but to decay. From these fair plains, these rural seas, So long conceal'd, so lately known, The unsocial Indian far retreats, To make some other clime his own, Where other streams, less pleasing, flow, And darker forests round him grow. Great Sire of floods! whose varied wave Through climes and countries takes its way, To whom creating nature gave Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway! No longer shall they useless prove, Nor idly through the forests rove; Nor longer shall thy princely flood From distant lakes be swell'd in vain, Nor longer through a darksome wood Advance, unnotic'd, to the main, Far other ends the fates decree— And commerce plans new freights for thee. While virtue warms the generous breast, Here heaven-born freedom shall reside,

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Nor shall the voice of war molest, Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride— Here reason shall new laws devise, And order from confusion rise. Forsaking kings and regal state, (A debt that reason deems amiss) The traveller owns, convinc'd though late, No realm so free, so blest as this— The east is half to slaves consign'd, And half to slavery more refin'd. O come the time, and haste the day, When man shall man no longer crush, When reason shall enforce her sway, Nor these fair regions raise our blush, Where still the African complains, And mourns his yet unbroken chains. Far brighter scenes, a future age, The muse predicts, these States shall hail, Whose genius shall the world engage, Whose deeds shall over death prevail, And happier systems bring to view Than all the eastern sages know. THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND In spite of all the learned 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 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 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 old ideas gone.

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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 (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.