Classic Poem

Can I, who have for others oft compil'd
The Songs of Death, forget my sweetest child,
Which like a flow'r crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs downe his smiling head,
Expecting with cleare hope to live anew,
Among the Angels fed with heav'nly dew?
We have this signe of Joy, that many dayes,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stayes,
The name of Jesus in his mouth containes,
His only food, his sleepe, his ease from paines.
O may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find.
Deare Lord, receive my Sonne, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, farre above
The course of nature, or his tender age,
Whose lookes could all my bitter griefes assuage;
Let his pure soule ordain'd sev'n yeares to be
In that fraile body, which was part of me,
Remaine my pledge in heav'n, as sent to shew,
How to this Port at ev'ry step I goe.