Classic Poem

Whose fervent praire, cold hearers bosoms warm'd
Whose sharpe sweet strains our deafest passion charmd
From whose bright presence darke prophane[r]s fled
Wise, holy, Noble, Hildersam is dead
Ashbie thy lampe is quencht & thou art madd
At heart, or else at heart thou wilt be sadd
Wher will you runne to find a font so pure
That could so full & still so fresh endure
Can that fair Orbe whence radiant fire he threw
With glow-wormes fill, or candlerush renew?
Yet all his learning was but as a limme
To the maine body, as a peice of him;
Father & founder to the poor he was
The layman's counsellour, the Clergies glasse
His high blood swell'd him not; in wealth of witt
Excelling, he as trifles rated it.
And from full store of tryalls I may spend
This surplusage; He was a faithfull Frend.
His life a woven roabe, without a seame
His heavenly temper an eternall theme
For tongues & penns, but his immortall mind
Raignes with Eliah. in a throne designd
Twixt him & Esay, Harke Cœlestiall Quires
Prophets, Apostles, strike their Ivorie lyres
And peales of ioy resound on golden strings
While Seraphins doe clapp their silver wings.