How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country’s wishes bless’d!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She then shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim-gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!