Thus every one before the Throne of Christ the Judge is brought, Both righteous and impious

that good or ill hath wrought. A separation, and diff'ring station by Christ appointed is

(To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad, 'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss.

105

110

PHILIP FRENEAU

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet :

No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;

They died- nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power,
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came;

5

If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;

The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

TO A HONEY BEE

THOU, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come on vagrant wing?
Does Bacchus tempting seem,

Did he for you this glass prepare?
Will I admit you to a share?

Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay -
Did wars distress, or labors vex,

Or did you miss your way?

A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.

Welcome!

I hail you to my glass

All welcome, here, you find;

Here, let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here, be all care resigned.

This fluid never fails to please,

And drown the griefs of men or bees.

What forced you here we cannot know,
And you will scarcely tell,

But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell :

On lighter wings we bid you fly,
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
And in this ocean die;

Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.

Like Pharach, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.°

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear,

And your grave will be this glass of wine,
Your epitaph a tear

Go, take your seat in Charon's boat;
We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.

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 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

(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,