Classic Poem

No, no, he is not dead; The mouth of fame,
Honor's shrill Herald would preserve his name
And make it live in spight of death and dust
Were there no other heaven, no other trust
He is not dead: The sacred Nine deny,
The soule that merits Fame, should ever dye;
He lives; and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her Trumpe, to glorifle a name,
He shall survive, and these selfe-closed eyes,
That now lie slumbring in the dust, shall rise
And fill'd with endlesse glory, shall enjoy
The perfect vision of eternall joy.