Classic Poem

What gentle Ghost, besprent with April deaw,
Hayles me, so solemnly, to yonder Yewgh?
And beckning wooes me, from the fatall tree
To pluck a Garland, for her selfe, or mee?
I doe obey you, Beautie! for in death,
You seeme a faire one! O that you had breath,
To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feele
A horrour in mee! all my blood is steele!
Stiffe! starke! my joynts 'gainst one another knock!
Whose Daughter? ha? Great Savage of the Rock?
Hee's good, as great. I am almost a stone!
And e're I can aske more of her shee's gone!
Alas, I am all Marble! write the rest
Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my brest:
It is a large faire table, and a true,
And the disposure will be something new,
When I, who would the Poet have become,
At least may beare th'inscription to her Tombe.
Shee was the Lady Jane, and Marchionisse
Of Winchester; the Heralds can tell this.
Earle Rivers Grand-Child--serve not formes, good Fame,
Sound thou her Vertues, give her soule a Name.
Had I a thousand Mouthes, as many Tongues,
And voyce to raise them from my brazen Lungs,
I durst not aime at that: The dotes were such
Thereof, no notion can expresse how much
Their Carract was! I, or my trump must breake,
But rather I, should I of that part speake!
It is too neere of kin to Heaven, the Soule,
To be describ'd! Fames fingers are too foule
To touch these Mysteries! We may admire
The blaze, and splendor, but not handle fire!
What she did here, by great example, well,
T'inlive posteritie, her Fame may tell!
And, calling truth to witnesse, make that good
From the inherent Graces in her blood!
Else, who doth praise a person by a new,
But a fain'd way, doth rob it of the true.
Her Sweetnesse, Softnesse, her fair Curtesie,
Her wary guardes, her wise simplicitie,
Were like a ring of Vertues, 'bout her set,
And pietie the Center, where all met.
A reverend State she had, an awfull Eye,
A dazling, yet inviting, Majestie:
What Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact
Could summe to a perfection, was her Act!
How did she leave the world? with what contempt?
Just as she in it liv'd! and so exempt
From all affection! when they urg'd the Cure
Of her disease, how did her soule assure
Her suffrings, as the body had beene away!
And to the Torturers (her Doctors) say,
Stick on your Cupping-glasses, feare not, put
Your hottest Causticks to, burne, lance, or cut:
'Tis but a body which you can torment,
And I, into the world, all Soule, was sent!
Then comforted her Lord! and blest her Sonne!
Chear'd her faire Sisters in her race to runne!
With gladnesse temper'd her sad Parents teares!
Made her friends joyes, to get above their feares!
And, in her last act, taught the Standers-by,
With admiration, and applause to die!
Let Angels sing her glories, who did call
Her spirit home, to her originall!
Who saw the way was made it! and were sent
To carry, and conduct the Complement
'Twixt death and life! Where her mortalitie
Became her Birth-day to Eternitie!
And now, through circumfused light, she lookes
On Natures secrets, there, as her owne bookes:
Speakes Heavens Language, and discourses free
To every Order, ev'ry Hierarchie!
Beholds her Maker! and, in him, doth see
What the beginnings of all beauties be;
And all beatitudes, that thence doe flow:
Which they that have the Crowne are sure to know!
Goe now, her happy Parents, and be sad
If you not understand, what Child you had,
If you dare grude at Heaven, and repent
T'have paid againe a blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay
At pleasure, to be call'd for, every day!
If you can envie your owne Daughters blisse,
And wish her state lesse happie than it is!
If you can cast about your either eye,
And see all dead here, or about to dye!
The Starres, that are the Jewels of the Night,
And Day, deceasing! with the Prince of light,
The Sunne! great Kings! and mightiest Kingdomes fall!
Whole Nations! nay, Mankind! the World, with all
That ever had beginning there, to'ave end!
With what injustice should one soule pretend
T'escape this common knowne necessitie,
When we were all borne, we began to die;
And, but for that Contention, and brave strife
The Christian hath t'enjoy the future life,
Hee were the wretched'st of the race of men:
But as he soares at that, he bruiseth then
The Serpents head: Gets above Death, and Sinne,
And, sure of Heaven, rides triumphing in.