Classic Poem

Were I to leave no more than a Good Freind,
Or but to heare the Summons to my End,
(Which I have long'd for) I could then with ease
Attire my Grief in Words, and so appease
That Passion in my Bosome, which out-growes
The Language of strict Verse, or largest Prose.
But here I am quite lost; writing to You
All that I pen or think is forct and new.
My Facultyes run crosse, and prove as weak
T'indite this melancholy task, as speak.
Indeed all words are vaine. Well might I spare
This rendring of my tortur'd thoughts in aire,
Or sighing paper. My infectious grief
Strikes inward, and affords mee no releef,
But still a deeper wound, To loose a sight
More lov'd then Health, and dearer then the Light.
But all of us were not at the same time
Brought forth; nor are wee billeted in one clime.
Nature hath pitch't mankind at severall rates,
Making our Places diverse as our Fates.
Unto that universall Law I bow,
Though with unwilling knee, and doe allowe
Hir cruell justice, which dispos'd us so
That wee must counter to our wishes goe.
'Twas part of Man's first curse, which order'd well
Wee should not alway with our Likings dwell.
Tis only the Triumphant Church where wee
Shall in unsever'd Neighbourhood agree.
Goe then Best Soule, and where You must appeare
Restore the Day to that dull Hemisphære.
Ne're may the happlesse Night You leave behind
Darken the Comforts of your purer mind.
May all the Blessings wishes can invent
Enrich your Dayes, and crowne them with content.
And though You travaile downe into the West
May your Life's Sun stand fixed in the East
Farre from the weeping Sett; nor may my Eare
Take in that killing whisper, You once were.
Thus kisse I your faire hands, taking my leave
As Prisoners at the Barr their Doome receive.
All joyes goe with You. Let sweet Peace attend
You on the way, and waite your journeye's end.
But let your Discontents and sowrer fate
Remaine with mee, borne off in my Retrait.
Might all your Crosses, in that Sheet of Lead
Which folds my heavy Heart, ly Buryed;
Tis the last service I would doe You, and the best
My Wishes ever meant, or Tongue profest.
Once more I take my leave. And once for all:
Our parting shewes so like a Funerall,
It strikes my Soule, which hath most right to bee
Chief Mourner at this sad Solemnity.
And think not Dearest! cause this parting knell
Is rung in Verses, that at your Farwell
I only mourne in Poëtry and Ink:
No, my pen's melancholy Plommets sink
So lowe, they dive where th'hid Affections sitt,
Blotting that Paper where my mirth was writt.
Beleev't, that Sorrow truest is, which lyes
Deep in the Breast, not floating in the Eyes:
And he with saddest Circumstance doth part,
Who seales his Farwell with a Bleeding Heart.