[ ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI]
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 sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
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 repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!
W. Collins.
[ TO DAFFODILS]
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain’d his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray’d together, we Will go with you along.