How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,By all their country’s wishes bless’d!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
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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 repairTo dwell a weeping hermit there!
