Classic Poem

On the Lady Venetia Digby, found dead in her bed, leaning her head on her hand .

Rash Censure stay: nor he, nor she that's gone
Must be condemn'd: unless to Jove alone
Fate's folded up: So Lightnings subt'lest flame
Melts the cas'd steel, to which, which way it came
No piercing eye can see: As well we may
Trace yonder fish which way she swam at sea,
Find th'Arrows flight, or by dissection tell
Fancies that in that living brain did dwell.
Yet she is gone; gone as the Dove which last
Toss'd Noah sent from his op'd Arke to taste
Freedom at large; but never to return,
Till next a floud of fire the world shall burn.
So prisoned Peter , whom fierce Herod kept,
Th'Angel inlarges, while the dull Guard slept.
So while the body in a funeral flame
Crumbles to dust, from whence at first it came,
In a dark odour sadning brightest day,
Th'imagin'd soul, the Eagle, steals away.
Yet there are those, striving to salve their own
Deep want of skill, have in a fury thrown
Scandal on her, and say she wanted brain.
Botchers of Nature! your eternal stain
This judgment is. Can you believe that she
Whose great perfection was, that she was she,
That she who was all Charm, whose frail parts
Could captivate by troups even noblest hearts,
And from wise men, with flowing grace conquer
More than they had, until they met with her?
Can you believe a Brain, the common tye
Of each flat Sex, could ever towre so high,
As to sway her, from whose aspect did passe
Life, death and happinesse to men? This was
So far beyond your bare no more than sense,
That you ne'r thought of that Intelligence
Which did move her. Yet you may come to rail
At the Celestial Orbes when theirs shall fail,
'Cause they should so stand still. And this was it
Which made death mannerly, and strive to fit
Himself with reverence to her; that now
He came not like a Tyrant, on whose brow
A pompous terrour hung; but in a strain
Lovely and calm, as is the June serain.
That now, who most abhor him can but say,
Gently he did imbrace her into clay:
And her, as Monument for time to come,
Left her own statue, perfect for her tomb.
As a rough Satyr, tam'd with love, espies
Where his dear Nymph sweetly reposed lies,
Softly doth steal a kisse, then shrinks away,
Lest he awake his souls soul: so we may
Think death did here: So the pale amorous Moon
On Latmos kiss'd sleeping Endymion
In Musick, wine and slumbers, so he try'd,
Courted and won her: That henceforth the Bride,
Fresh Youth, and Queens, shall in their bravest trim,
The Bridegroom-Sports and Scepters, leave for him.
This more shall follow, no Stagyrian brain
Shall ever call him terrible again;
Nor yet name Death, but when he shall come to't,
He shall but onely wink, and that shall do't.