William Collins (1721–1759)

HOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

By all their country’s wishes blessed!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Returns to deck their hallowed mould,

She there 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 Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

And Freedom shall a while repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there!