The Blue Poetry Book. Lang Andrew

      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!

      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.

      We have short time to stay, as you,

      We have as short a Spring;