| Citation |
PC.771.004
14-21 Jan 1771:2073 (210)
. . . It is indeed but fitting that the sweetest poet should
sing the dirge of the greatest hero.--
[Elegy on death of Marquis of Granby.]
[1]
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
With all their country's wishes blest!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to dress their hallow'd mould;
She there 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:
There honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping Hermit there.
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