295. Ode Written in MDCCXLVI

William Collins (1720—1759)

  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 awhile repair

  To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!