How sleep the brave , who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When spring ,with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd 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 honour comes, a pilgrim gray.
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there !
---------- William Collins
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