Classic Poem

Sad Relick of a Blessed Soule! whose trust
Wee sealed up in this religious Dust.
O doe not' thy low Exequyes suspect
As the cheap Arguments of our neglect.
'Twas a commaunded duty, that Thy Grave
As little Pride, as Thou Thy self, should have.
Therfore thy Covering is an humble Stone,
And but a Word for thy Inscription.
When those that in the same Earth neighbour thee
Have each his Chronicle and Pedigree.
They have their waving Pennons and their Flagges,
(Of Matches and Allyance formall braggs:)
When Thou (although from Ancestours Thou came
Old as the Heptarchy; Great as Thy Name)
Sleepst there enshrin'd in thy admired Parts,
And hast no Heraldry but thy Desarts.
Yet let not them their prowder Marbles boast,
For they rest with lesse honour, though more cost.
Goe, search the world, and with your Mattocks wound
The groaning Bosome of the patient ground:
Digg from the hidden veines of her dark womb
All that is rare and pretious for a Tomb:
Yet when much Treasure, and more Time is spent,
You must grant His the Nobler Monument,
Whose Faith stands o're Him for a Hearse, and hath
The Resurrection for his Epitaph.