HOW sleep the Brave, who sink to Rest, <br />By all their Country's Wishes blest! <br />When Spring, with dewy Fingers cold, <br />Returns to deck their hallow'd Mold, <br />She there shall dress a sweeter Sod, <br />Than Fancy's Feet have ever trod. <br /> <br /> <br />2. <br /> <br />By Fairy Hands their Knell is rung, <br />By Forms unseen their Dirge is sung; <br />There Honour comes, a Pilgrim grey, <br />To bless the Turf that wraps their Clay, <br />And Freedom shall a-while repair, <br />To dwell a weeping Hermit there!<br /><br />William Taylor Collins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-31/
