Classic Poem

What meanes this silence of Harvardine quils
While Mars triumphant thunders on our hills.
Have pagan priests their Eloquence confin'd
To no mans use but the mysterious mind?
Have Pawaws charm'd that art which was so rife
To crouch to every Don that lost his life?
But now whole towns and Churches fire and dy
Without the pitty of an Elegy .
Nay rather should my quils were they all swords
Wear to the hilts in some lamenting words.
I dare not stile them poetry but truth,
The dwingling products of my crazy youth.
If these essayes shall raise some quainter pens
Twil to the Writer make a rich amends.