Classic Poem

Death be not proud, thy hand gave not this blow,
Sin was her captive, whence thy power doth flow;
The executioner of wrath thou art,
But to destroy the just is not thy part.
Thy coming, terror, anguish, grief denounce;
Her happy state, courage, ease, joy pronounce.
From out the crystal palace of her breast,
The clearer soul was called to endless rest,
(Not by the thundering voice, wherewith God threats,
But, as with crowned saints in heaven he treats,)
And, waited on by angels, home was brought,
To joy that it through many dangers sought;
The key of mercy gently did unlock
The doors 'twixt heaven and it, when life did knock.

Nor boast, the fairest frame was made thy prey,
Because to mortal eyes it did decay;
A better witness than thou art, assures,
That though dissolved, it yet a space endures;
No dram thereof shall want or loss sustain,
When her best soul inhabits it again.
Go then to people cursed before they were,
Their spoils in triumph of thy conquest wear.
Glory not thou thy self in these hot tears
Which our face, not for hers, but our harm wears,
The mourning livery given by Grace, not thee,
Which wills our souls in these streams washed should be,
And on our hearts, her memory's best tomb,
In this her epitaph doth write thy doom.
Blind were those eyes, saw not how bright did shine
Through flesh's misty veil the beams divine.
Deaf were the ears, not charmed with that sweet sound
Which did in the spirit-instructed voice abound.
Of flint the conscience, did not yield and melt,
At what in her last Act it saw, heard, felt.

Weep not, nor grudge then, to have lost her sight,
Taught thus, our after stay's but a short night:
But by all souls not by corruption choked
Let in high raised notes that power be invoked.
Calm the rough seas, by which she sails to rest,
From sorrows here, to a kingdom ever blest;
And teach this hymn of her with joy, and sing,
The grave no conquest gets, Death hath no sting.