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 honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay And freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.—COLLINS. It was not until the morning succeeding his arrival, after breakfast, when they found themselves alone together in the drawing-room, that Justin told Erminie the story of his voyage and shipwreck, his preservation and residence on the Desert Island, and hi…
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