Classic Poem

Thus Heav'n ordains! nor ought we to dispute,
Almighty Pow'r, and Wisdom absolute.
But oh! who can, so vast a Loss sustain?
Who can support such Grief, and not complain?
Pride of thy Sex; oh! who from Thee can part,
Without a mourning Voice, as well as bleeding Heart?

To speak thy Praise, will yield us no Relief,
The more thy Worth, the greater is our Grief:
But, since thou'rt gone, and all thy Beauty lies
Hid in the Shades of Death from mortal Eyes;
My faithful Muse, from vulgar Motives free,
Shall tell the World, what they have lost in thee,
That all may bless thy Name, that all may grieve like me,

So Lovely was her Face, so sweet her Mien;
So mild her Looks, her Temper so serene;
Could Virtue, in an humane Shape appear,
Thus, would she look; this, be the Form she'd wear.
Fair, as she was, she Beauty's Praise declin'd;
More lovely still, in Her superiour Mind:
Blest with an easy Wit, yet solid Sense,
Few were her Words, but great their Influence:
Mature in Judgment, though in Years but young,
Slow to resolve, in Resolution strong.

So Modest, that she knew no Guilty thought,
Nor ever blush'd, but for another's Fault:
Unskill'd in all the fashionable Arts
Affected Beauties use, to conquer Hearts;
Her nobler Soul, such Methods did disdain,
And o'er her Passions only, sought to reign:
Which modest Negligence adorn'd her more,
Than all those other num'rous Charms she bore,
And thus, without the least Design to please,
She gain'd an Empire, and she rul'd at Ease.

Ingenious Arts, her Entertainment were,
When better Bus'ness would her Minutes spare;
For Idleness, she held so great a Crime,
She never lost an Interval of Time;
Whether, she with her Needle finely wrought
Some curious Piece, to just Perfection brought;
Or, with her Nobler Pencil, pleas'd to trace
The shining Beauties of some lovely Face:
Which e'er she made her Choice, succeeded well,
For both she practis'd; did in both excel.

Tho' thus adorn'd, yet Pride could never find
The least Admission to her humble Mind;
So far she was from self Opinion free,
Her own admir'd Deserts she would not see:
But others Merit, with an Eagle's Eye,
She'd soon discern, and kindly magnifie:
Blind to their Faults, but partial to their Fame,
Others she prais'd, her self would only blame.

Her Charity was so compassionate,
She more than seem'd to share the Needy's Fate:
But Pity was not all which they receiv'd,
For where she pitied, there she still reliev'd:
Yet not content with what her Life bestow'd,
Her dying Will confer'd a greater Good;
A Good; of such Extent, and lasting Fame,
Successive ages shall it's worth Proclaim,
And Children yet unborn extol her fragrant Name.

Such strict Obedience in her Life was shown,
As if her Parents Will had been her own.
With what endearing Care, and duteous Love,
Her Mother's Tenderness she did improve,
Her pious Mother's Tears, do best explain;
Tears, which Alas, her Eyes bestow in Vain!
For no Complaints can raise the Nymph again.

Religious Duties were her early Care;
In them she mov'd, as in her proper Sphear:
Her Heart, her Soul, on these she did employ.
But for this World's Concerns, she pass'd 'em by,
And scarcely thought 'em worth a transient Eye.

Her Piety was so intensely bright,
It Scarcely now receives a greater Light,
Than here, in glorious Beams, it did display,
Warm without Blaze; and pure without Allay:
Nor, was the Sun more constant in his Race,
Than her Seraphick Course of Love, and Praise:
With Morning Light, she duely rose to Pray;
And, with the like Devotion, clos'd the Day.
Such was her Life, and such her Christian Guard,
Death found her not surpriz'd, or unprepar'd;
But soon, as e'er th' Almighty's Call she knew,
From worldly Joys, she chearfully withdrew,
And to her Heav'nly Bridegroom's Summons flew.
Calm was her Life, and easy was her Death;
With ardent Longings, she resign'd her Breath.
A strong, and lively Faith, her Words exprest,
And her last Look a dying Saint confest:
No ghastly Pangs defac'd the lovely Shrine,
But as her Life, so was her Death divine.

Oh early pious Maid! O happy Saint!
Enthron'd in Bliss; forgive our fond Complaint:
From Sin and Death, thou art for ever free;
Triumphant, in a blest Eternity:
But we, unhappy! still remain below,
Reserv'd to future Tryals; farther Woe:
And now, misled by partial Grief, and Care,
" Feel not thy Joys, but feel our own Despaire.