By William Collins

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!

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