Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired

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

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

In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.

Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell: 'T is virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

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!

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.