58 MIC AH P. FLINT. [1820-30. Say ! do your spirits wear oblivion's chains ? Did death forever quench your hopes and fears ? Or live they, shrined in some congenial form? What if the swan, who leaves her summer nest Among the northern lakes, and mounts the storm, To wing her rapid flight to climes more blest, Should hover o'er the very spot where rest The crumbling bones once with her spirit warm. "What, if the song, so soft, so sweet, so clear, Whose music fell so gently from on high. In tones aerial, thrilling my rapt ear ; Though not a speck was on the cloudless sky, Were their own soft funereal melody. While lingering o'er the scenes that once were dear ? Or did those fairy hopes of future bliss. Which simple Nature to your bosoms gave, Find other worlds with fairer skies than this. Beyond the gloomy portals of the grave. In whose bright bowers the virtuous and the brave Rest from their toils, and all their cares dismiss ? Where the great hunter still pursues the chase. And o'er the sunny mountains tracks the deer. Or finds again each long-extinguished race, And sees once more the mighty mammoth rear The giant form which lies embedded here. Of other years the sole remaining trace. Or it may be that still ye linger near The sleeping ashes, once your dearest pride ; And, could your forms to mortal eye appear. Could the dark veil of death be tkrown aside. Then might I see your restless shadows glide. With watclaful care, around these relics dear. If so, forgive the rude, unhallowed feet. Which trode so thoughtless o'er your mighty dead. I would not thus profane their low retreat. Nor trample where the sleeping warrior's head Lay pillowed on its everlasting bed. Age after age, still sunk in slumbers sweet. Farewell ; and may you still in peace re- pose. Still o'er you may the flowers, untrodden, bloom. And gently wave to every wind that blows. Breathing their fragrance o'er each lonely tomb. Where, earthward mouldering, in the same dark womb, Ye mingle with the dust, from whence ye rose. THE WARRIOR'S EXECUTION. Beside the stake, in fetters bound, A captive warrior lay. And slept a sleep as sweetly sound, As children's after play ; Although the mori'ow's sun would come To light him to his martyrdom. And as he slept, a cheering dream His flitting hours beguil'd: He stood beside his native stream, And clasped his first-born child. The wife, that drest his hunter-fare, And all his little ones were there.
