Classic Poem

Up , Beldame Muse! thy Climacterick's past:
But one work more; thy lastingst, if not last.
Lord Hastings glorious shade before us stands,
Whose Vertue exacts this Duty from our hands:
'Twill be a Night-piece, friends: Here never seek
Lucie large-soul'd, and Ferdinand the meek;
Who both esteem'd it braver work and worth,
To bring this Son up, then t'have brought him forth.
He th'Exposition to their double Text,
The Glass wherein they saw themselves reflext;
He, that was He; and She, and both in one,
Both she and he, all three, in him are gone.
This Sun-set all obscur'd: with Ætna prest,
Their burning Giant Grief can take no rest.
To print so black a Sorrow fair, I want
Gold-plate for Paper, Pen of Adamant.
Veils on those chief Close-mourners faces spread;
I pencil out all gentler eyes in Red
Swoln lids; as having spent their bottom-store
Of precious dew-drops, till their hearts are sore.
Which fast congeal'd Balm has his Herse in fixt
In Chrystal Case, with Pearl and Amber mixt.
Rare Monument! but cannot him refine,
So rich a Saint impov'rishing his Shrine.
Was he not purest, fairest, wisest, best?
All Graces magazin'd, yet unexprest.
When his bright Bodies eminence I view'd,
With such a soveraign Intellect indu'd,
So just and ponder'd Temp'rature to finde,
So early ripe, so richly matcht in Minde;
Choice Gem of Nature, set in Nurturing Gold;
Exulting Fancy quick conceiv'd the Mold
Was ready now, wherein th'Almightie's hand
Wou'd cast new Nobles, and restore the Land;
Whose finest Gold, if in compare it bring,
Is sure to finde his strong Mercurial Sting.
He caus'd us hurl our Vows, and gave free scope
To change our Wishes into Present Hope.
But O Sydneian ! O Blood-Royal Fate!
Great Britains curse, whose sinful, shameful State
Makes all Heroick Vertue soon decay;
Which mad she throws, or just God takes away.
So fell our Ripheus in New Troy , lest he
Perchance her Fires and instant Ruine see:
For will that sacred Thundrer never powre
On such a Sodom his revengeful showre?
Where Lust and Pride, with their five brethren stand
In bold defiance of his armed hand:
Where Lords and Gentry, mindless of white Fame,
Graceless of old, are now beneath all Shame.
Pardon, fresh Saint, to set thy shining Good
With such coarse foils, to make it understood:
To topless height, from their base depth below,
Thy flaming Pyramid of Praise wou'd grow.
But for thou joy'st th'applause of Angels there,
How frivolous are our weak Ecchoes here!