Classic Poem

Silence (in truth) would speak my Sorrow best,
For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tel:
Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest,
But time to bid Him , whom I lov'd, Farwel.

O my unhappy Lines! you that before
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton Cries,
And now congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore
Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies.

This is the Sable Stone, this is the Cave
And womb of Earth that doth his Corp's imbrace,
While others sing his praise, let me engrave
These bleeding Numbers, to adorn the Place.

Here will I paint the Characters of woe,
Here will I pay my Tribute to the Dead,
And here my faithfull Tears in showrs shal flow
To humanize the Flints whereon I tread.

Where though I mourn my matchlesse losse alone,
And none between my weaknesse judge and me,
Yet even these gentle walles allow my Mone,
Whose doleful Echoes to my Plaints agree.

But, is He gon? and live I Ryming here,
As if some Muse would listen to my Lay?
When all distun'd sit waiting for their Dear,
And bathe the Banks where he was wont to play?

Dwell thou in endlesse Light, discharged soul:
Freed now from Natures, & from Fortunes trust:
While on this fluent Globe, my Glasse shall role,
And run the rest of my remaining dust.