William Collins Quotes

Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

Though taste, though genius bless To some divine excess, Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply May court, may charm our eye, Thou, only thou can’st raise the meeting soul!

O thou, the friend of man assigned, With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe: When first Distress with dagger keen Broke forth to waste his destined scene, His wild unsated foe!

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

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

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.