Classic Poem

Mean while thy Body mourns in its own Dust,
And puts on Sables for its tender Trust.
Tho' dead, it yet retains some untoucht Grace,
Wherein we may thy Soul's fair Foot-steps trace;
Which no Disease can frighten from its wonted place:
E'en its Deformities do thee become,
And only serve to consecrate thy Doom.
Those marks of Death which did its Surface stain.
Now hallow, not profane.
Each Spot does to a Ruby turn;
What soil'd but now, would now adorn.
Those Asterisks plac'd in the Margin of thy Skin
Point out the nobler Soul that dwelt within:
Thy lesser, like the greater World appears
All over bright, all over stuck with Stars.
So Indian Luxury when it would be trim,
Hangs Pearls on every Limb.
Thus amongst ancient Picts Nobility
In Blemishes did lie;
Each by his Spots more honourable grew,
And from their Store a greater Value drew:
Their Kings were known by th' Royal Stains they bore,
And in their Skins their Ermin wore.