Classic Poem

The flowre of virgins in her prime of years
By ruthlesse destinies is ta'ne away,
And rap'd from earth, poore earth, before this day
Which ne're was rightly nam'd a vale of tears.

Beautie to heaven is fled, sweet modestie
No more appears; she whose harmonious sounds
Did ravish sense, and charm minde's deepest wounds,
Embalm'd with many a tear now low doth lie.

Fair hopes evanish'd are; she should have grac'd
A prince's marriage-bed, but, lo! in heaven
Blest paramours to her were to be given;
She liv'd an angel, now is with them plac'd.

Vertue was but a name abstractly trim'd,
Interpreting what she was in effect,
A shadow from her frame, which did reflect
A portrait by her excellencies lim'd.

Thou whom free-will or chance hath hither brought,
And read'st, here lies a branch of Metland's stem,
And Seaton's offspring, know that either name
Designes all worth yet reach'd by humane thought.
Tombs elsewhere rise, life to their guests to give,
Those ashes can frail monuments make live.