William Collins

Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part,
Nature in him was almost lost in art.

Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part,
Nature in him was almost lost in art.

Filled with fury, rapt, inspir'd.

Filled with fury, rapt, inspir'd.

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
. . . read more

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
. . . .
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered read more

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.