How Sleep the Brave

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 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!

—William Collins.