Classic Poem

Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest,
Whose heavenly gifts, increasèd by disdain
And virtue, sank the deeper in his breast:
Such profit he of envy could obtain.

A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stithy, where some work of fame
Was daily wrought to turn to Britain's gain.

A visage stern and mild, where both did grow
Vice to condemn, in virtues to rejoice;
Amid great storms whom grace assurèd so
To live upright and smile at fortune's choice.

A hand that taught what may be said in rhyme,
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit--
A mark the which, unperfected for time,
Some may approach but never none shall hit.

A tongue that served in foreign realm his king,
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame
Each noble heart: a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travail unto fame.

An eye whose judgment no affect could blind,
Friends to allure and foes to reconcile,
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposéd, void of guile.

A heart where dread yet never so impressed
To hide the thought that might the truth advance;
In neither fortune lift nor yet repressed
To swell in wealth or yield unto mischance.

A valiant corpse where force and beauty met,
Happy--alas, too happy, but for foes,
Lived and ran the race that Nature set,
Of manhood's shape, where she the mold did lose.

But to the heavens that simple soul is fled,
Which left with such as covet Christ to know
Witness of faith that never shall be dead,
Sent for our health, but not receivèd so.

Thus, for our guilt, this jewel have we lost;
The earth his bones, the heaven possess his ghost.