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 hallowed mold, 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 awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
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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 hallowed mold, 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... |
An Ode for Music WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell,— Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,— Possessed beyond the muse’s painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted... |
