Classic Poem

He nceforth be Dumb, ye Oracles of Wit;
Ye humbly must to Fate submit:
How soon must ye decline! How low must fall!
Since She is gone who did Inspire ye all?
Her Books are the best Patterns for the Pen,
Her Person was the best of Subjects too;
In Wit and Sense She did excel all Men;
And all her Sex in Virtue did outgoe.

Though Grief affords some Eloquence,
HencefortHexpect but little Sense;
For, since she's gone, all we can do
Will but the Pangs of Dying-writers show.
When the bright Ruler of the Day
Th' Horizon of his Presence has bereft
Some feeble streaks of Light are left,
Yet darkness soon must come, and all that light decay.
Our Sun's forever set, we have no hope
Of this as of the other Sun's return:
We all in Darkness must forever grope,
And we for ever must in Tears her absence mourn.

Philosophers must wander in the dark;
Now they of Truth can find no certain mark;
Since She their surest Guide is gone away,
They cannot chuse but miserably stray.
All did depend on Her, but She on none,
For her Philosophy was all her own.
She never did to the poor Refuge fly
Of Occult Quality or Sympathy .
She could a Reason for each Cause present,
Not trusting wholly to Experiment,
No Principles from others she purloyn'd,
But wisely Practice she with Speculation joyn'd.

None was more good, and once none was more fair:
She was not as most of her frail Sex are;
Who'ave Fruitful Wombs but Baren Brains ,
She left the best Remains:
Though we no Issue of her Body find
Yet she hath left behind
The Nobler Issue of her mighty Mind ;
Learning she needed not, nor yet despis'd:
Though from herself all Arts she knew;
The truly Learn'd she nobly Patroniz'd,
And every Artist, she encourag'd too.

Let all her sex fashion by her their Lives:
She was the best of Women , best of Wives .
T'her Lord Sh'was warme and loving as the Spring,
But to all others cold as Winters Ice,
Her sight on all a shiv'ring awe did bring,
And nipt, at first, all vain attempts of Vice;
But though in Love she bore a Noble pride,
She to each Skilful man of Art
Her Conversation freely doth impart,
And to all others civil was beside.

But we by praising thus provoke our Grief
Which never can expect Relief,
Nor can the most luxurious Praise
(Though penn'd with Art that might deserve the Bayes.)
Nor all which we can think afford
Ease to her much lamenting Lord:
Whose loss does now by far outvye
All he yet e're sustain'd
Yet he once lost much more for Loyalty
Than any Subject, and much less has gain'd;
This noble half she left behind
Who by her much lamented death must find
Too great a Trial for the greatest Mind.

Oh what Expedient can there be
Found to support his Magnanimity!
The best of Husbands, and the noblest Peer;
The best of Generals, best of Subjects too,
Whose Arts in Peace as well as War appear:
He knows how to advise, and how to do;
His Prudence and his Courage might uphold
The most decay'd and crippled State,
And rescue it from the Jawes of Fate:
His Body may, but Mind, can ne're be old;
Him she has left, and from our sight is hurl'd
And Gloriously shines in the true Blazing World.