72
Tixall Poetry.
On the Death of
Mrs Moore's Little Sonne,
at Amsterdam.
Oh, stay those teares that blind thee thus,
Thou seest not how iniurious
Thou art become to th' ether skies,
Both of the starves, and of thyn' eyes.
Should I, when oft some plant I see
Wher hope had destined me a tree,
Soone blasted by the frost or wind,
Call nature, or the yeare, unkind?
In natures bookes, who knows but yet,
In some by leafe, it may be writt,
From th' ashes where that plant had stood,
Might, phœnix-like, grow up a wood?
Thou seest not how iniurious
Thou art become to th' ether skies,
Both of the starves, and of thyn' eyes.
Should I, when oft some plant I see
Wher hope had destined me a tree,
Soone blasted by the frost or wind,
Call nature, or the yeare, unkind?
In natures bookes, who knows but yet,
In some by leafe, it may be writt,
From th' ashes where that plant had stood,
Might, phœnix-like, grow up a wood?
