William Collins

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom,

Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee ling'ring, with a fond delay, Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my lot no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,

I As once, if not with light regard I read aright that gifted bard

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs,

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

(STROPHE) Who shall awake the Spartan fife, And call in solemn sounds to life

O thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell,