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

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.

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.

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