Classic Poem

Whiles Phebus shines within our Hemisphere,
There are no starres, or at least none appear.
Did not the sunne go hence, we should not know
Whether there were a night and starres, or no.
Till thou ly'dst down upon thy western bed,
Not one Poetick starre durst shew his head;
Athenian owls fear'd to come forth in verse,
Until thy fall darkned the Universe.
Thy death makes Poets; Mine eyes flow for thee,
And every tear speaks a dumbe elegie.
Now the proud sea, grown richer then the land,
Doth strive for place, and claim the upper hand;
And yet an equall losse the sea sustains,
If it lose alwayes so much as it gains.
Yet we who had the happinesse to know
Thee what thou wast, (oh were it with us so!)
Enjoy thee still, and use thy precious name
As a perfume to sweeten our own fame.
And lest thy body should corrupt by death,
To Thetis we our brinish tears bequeath.
As night, close-mourner for the setting sunne,
Bedews her cheeks with tears when he is gone
To th' other world, so we lament and weep
Thy sad untimely fall, who by the deep
Didst climbe to th' highest heav'ns; Where being crown'd
A King, in after-times 'twill scarce be found
Whether (thy life and death being without taint)
Thou wert Edward the Confessour, or Saint.