Classic Poem

Thou from th' enthroned martyrs blood-stain'd line,
Dost in thy Virtues bright Example shine.
And when thy Darted Beam from the moist Sky
Nightly salutes thy grieving Peoples Eye,
Thou like some Warning Light rais'd by our fears,
Shalt both provoke and still supply our Tears,
Till the Great Prophet wak'd from his long Sleep,
Again bids Sion for Josiah weep:
That all Successions by a firm Decree
May teach their Children to Lament for Thee.
Beyond these Mournfull Rites there is no Art
Or Cost can Thee preserve. Thy better Part
Lives in despight of Death, and will endure
Kept safe in thy Unpattern'd Portraiture :
Which though in Paper drawn by thine own Hand,
Shall longer than Corinthian-Marble stand,
Or Iron Sculptures: There thy matchless Pen
Speaks Thee the Best of Kings as Best of Men :
Be this Thy Epitaph ; for This alone
Deserves to carry Thy Inscription.
And 'tis but modest Truth: (so may I thrive
As not to please the Best of thine Alive,
Or flatter my Dead Master , here would I
Pay my last Duty in a Glorious Lie)
In that Admired Piece the World may read
Thy Virtues and Misfortunes Storied;
Which bear such curious Mixture, Men must doubt
Whether Thou Wiser wert or more Devout .
There live Blest Relick of a Saint-like mind,
With Honours endless as Thy Peace, Enshrin'd;
Whilst we, divided by that Bloody Cloud,
Whose purple Mists Thy Murther'd Body shroud,
Here stay behind at gaze: Apt for Thy sake
Unruly murmurs now 'gainst Heav'n to make,
Which binds us to Live well, yet gives no Fence
To Guard her dearest Sons from Violence.
But He whose Trump proclaims, Revenge is mine ,
Bids us our Sorrow by our Hope confine,
And reconcile our Reason to our Faith ,
Which in thy Ruine such Concussions hath;
It dares Conclude, God does not keep His Word
If Zimri dye in Peace that slew his Lord .