Classic Poem

Aithen, thy pearly coronet let fall,
Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set
The weeping cypresse, or the sable jet:
Mourne this thy nursling's losse, a losse which all
Apollo's quire bemoanes, which many yeares
Cannot repaire, nor influence of spheares.

Ah! when shalt thou find shepheard like to him,
Who made thy bankes more famous by his worth,
Than all those gems thy rocks and streams send forth?
His splendor others' glow-worm light did dim,
Sprung of an ancient and a vertuous race,
He vertue more than many did embrace.

He fram'd to mildnesse thy halfe-barbarous swaines,
The good man's refuge, of the bad the fright,
Unparalel'd in friendship, world's delight,
For hospitality along thy plaines
Far-fam'd, a patron and a patterne faire
Of piety, the Muses' chiefe repaire.

Most debonaire, in courtesie supreame,
Lov'd of the meane, and honour'd by the great,
Ne're dasht by fortune, nor cast down by fate,
To present and to after times a theame.
Aithen, thy teares poure on this silent grave,
And drop them in thy alabaster cave,
And Niobe's imagery become;
And when thou hast distilled here a tombe,
Enchace in it thy pearls, and let it beare,
Aithen's best gem and honour shrin'd lies here.