Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.

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 awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!

In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.

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

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

Each lonely scene shall thee restore; For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till Pity’s self be dead.