How Sleep The Brave

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their countrys wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancys feet have ever trod.

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!

William Collins

William Collins was an important English poet of the 18th century, known for his lyrical odes. Though not prolific, his work significantly influenced Romantic poets. His poetry is characterized by its emotional depth and vivid imagery, often exploring themes of nature and the supernatural. Despite his talent, Collins struggled with mental health issues and died at a young age, leaving behind a relatively small but impactful body of work.

William Collins

In The Downhill Of Life

William Collins, Simple Poetry

Fidele

William Collins, Simple Poetry

The Passions, An Ode to Music

William Collins, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Ode Written In The Beginning Of The Year 1746

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed 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 grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins

Fidele

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

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No witherd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

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

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwel...

William Collins

An Ode On The Popular Superstitions Of The Highlands Of Scotland, Considered As The Subject Of Poetry

Home, thou returnst from Thames, whose naiads long
Have seen thee lingring with a fond delay
Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,
Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth
Whom, long endeard, thou leavst by Lavants side;
Together let us wish him lasting truth,
And joy untainted, with his destind bride.
Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-livd bliss, forget my social name;
But think far off how, on the southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turnst, whose evry vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand:
To thee thy copious subjects neer shall fail;
Thou needst but take the pencil to thy hand,
And paint what all believe who ...

William Collins

A Song From Shakespeare's Cymbeline

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


No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.


No witherd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!


The redbreast oft at evning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary moss, and gatherd flowrs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.


When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
Or midst the chase on evry plain,
The tender th...

William Collins

E. B. B.

I.

The white-rose garland at her feet,
The crown of laurel at her head,
Her noble life on earth complete,
Lay her in the last low bed
For the slumber calm and deep:
He giveth His belovèd sleep.



II.

Soldiers find their fittest grave
In the field whereon they died;
So her spirit pure and brave
Leaves the clay it glorified
To the land for which she fought
With such grand impassioned thought.



III.

Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome,
She in well-loved Tuscan earth;
Finding all their deaths long home
Far from their old home of birth.
Italy, you hold in trust
Very sacred English dust.



IV.

Therefore this one prayer I breathe,
That you yet may worthy prove

James Thomson

The Air

Oh, cast every care to the wind,
And dry, best beloved, the tear!
Secure, that thou ever shalt find,
The friend of thy bosom sincere.
Still friendship shall live in the breast of the brave,
And we'll love, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

I have felt each emotion of bliss,
That affection the fondest can prove,
Have received on my lip the first kiss
Of thy holy and innocent love;
But perish each hope of delight,
Like the flashes of night on the sea,
If ever, though far from thy sight,
My soul is forgetful of thee!
Still the memory shall live in the breast of the brave,
How we loved, the long day, where the forest-trees wave.

Now bring my boy; may God above
Shower blessings on his head!
May he requite his mother's love,
And t...

William Lisle Bowles