Classic Poem

And here thy Sickness does new matter raise
Both for thy Vertue and our Praise;
'Twas here thy Picture look'd most neat,
When deep'st in Shades 'twas set.
Thy Vertues only thus could fairer be
Advantag'd by the Foil of Misery.
Thy Soul which hasten'd now to be enlarg'd,
And of its grosser Load discharg'd,
Began to act above its wonted rate,
And gave a Praelude of its next unbody'd State.
So dying Tapers near their Fall,
When their own Lustre lights their Funeral,
Contract their Strength into one brighter Fire,
And in that Blaze triumphantly expire.
So the bright Globe that rules the Skies,
Tho' he guild Heav'n with a glorious Rise,
Reserves his choicest Beams to grace his Set;
And then he looks most great,
And then in greatest Splendor dies.