Classic Poem

If I could ever write a lasting verse,
It should be laid, deare Saint, upon thy herse.
But Sorrow is no muse, and doth confesse
That it least can what most it would expresse.
Yet, that I may some bounds to griefe allow,
I'le try if I can weepe in numbers now.
Ah beauteous blossom! too untimely dead!
Whither, ah whither is thy sweetnesse fled?
Where are the charmes that allwayes did arise
From the prevailing languadge of thine eyes?
Where is thy modest aire and lovely meen,
And all the wonders that in these were seen?
Alas! in vaine! In vaine on thee I rave;
There is no pitty in the stupid grave
But so the bankrupt, sitting on the brimm
Of those fierce billowes which had ruin'd him,
Beggs for his lost estate, and doth complaine
To the inexorable floods in vain
As well we might enquire, when roses dye,
To what retirement do their odours fly;
Where do their vertues and their blushes hast,
When the short triumph of their life is past;
Or call their perish'd beauties back with teares,
As add one moment to thy finish'd yeares.
No, no, th'art gone, and thy presaging mind
So thriftily thy early howers design'd,
That hasty death was baffled in his pride,
Since nothing of thee but thy body dyed
Thy soule was up betimes, and so concern'd
Too grasp all excellence that could be learn'd,
That finding nothing fill her thirsting heare,
To the spring head she went, to quench it there;
And so prepar'd, that being free from sin
She quickly might become a cherubim
Thou wert all soule, and through thy eye it shin'd,
Asham'd and angry to be so confin'd.
It long'd to be uncag'd, and thither flown
Where it might know as clearly as 'twas knowne
In these vast hopes we might thy chance have found
But that heaven blinds whom it decrees to wound.
For parts so soon at so sublime a pitch,
A judgement so mature, fancy so rich,
Never appeares unto unthankfull men,
But as a Vision, to be hid againe
So glorious scenes in masques spectators view
With the short pleasure of an hower or two;
But that once past, the ornaments are gone,
The lights extinguish'd, and the curtaines drawne.
But all these gifts were thy lesse noble part,
Nor was thy head so glorious as thy heart;
Where the divine impression shin'd so cleare,
As snatch'd thee hence, and yet indear'd thee heare:
For what in thee did most command our love,
Was both the cause and signe of thy remove.
Such fooles are we, so fatally we choose,
That what we most would keepe, we soonest loose.
The humble greatnesse of thy pious thought,
Sweetness unforced, and bashfullnesse untaught,
The native candour of thy open breast,
And all the beames wherein thy worth was drest,
Thy wit so bright, so piercing, so immense,
Adorn'd with wise and lovely innocence,
Might have foretold thou wert not so compleat,
But that our joy might be as short as great
'Tis so, and all our cares and hopes of thee
Fled like a vanish'd dreame, or wither'd tree.
So the poor Swaine beholds his ripened corne,
By some rough wind without a sickle torne
Never, ah! never let glad parents guesse.
At one remove of future happinesse,
But reckon children 'mong those passing joyes
Which one hower gives them, and the next destroyes
Alas! we were secure of our content,
But find too late that it was onely lent,
To be a mirrour wherein we might see
How fraile we are, how innocent should be
But if to thy blest soule my griefe appeares,
Forgive and pitty these injurious teares;
Impute them to affection's sad excesse,
Which will not yield to nature's tendernesse,
Since 'twas through dearest tyes and highest trust
Continu'd from thy cradle to thy dust;
And so rewarded and confirm'd by thine,
That (wo is me!) I thought thee too much mine.
But I'le resigne, and follow thee as fast
As my unhappy minuts will make hast
Till when, the fresh remembrances of thee
Shall be my emblem of mortalitie
For such a loss as thine, bright soule, is not
Ever to be repaired, or forgot.