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,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.
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