XXVII.—ODE.
1. How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
With all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She then shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
2. By fairy-hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
Then Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,