How are our Spirituall Gamesters slipt away? Crossing their Hilts, and leaving of their play? We take up hilts, the Fencing Schoole implore. Are Norton, Newman, Stone, Thompson gone hence? Gray, Wilson, Shepherd, Flint, and Mitchell since? Eliot, two Mather's Fathers first, then th' Son, Is Buncker's Woodward's Rainer's hourglass run? With Davenport's Sim's, Wareham's? Who are gone? That Allen now is Called hence? Shall none Be left behinde to tell's the Quondam Glory Of this Plantation? What bleeding Story Doth this present us with? Mine eyes boile ore Thy gellid teares into this Urn therefore, Wherein their Noble ashes are, and know yee All end in Allen, by a Paragoge. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SURFACES AND MASKS; 1 by CLARENCE MAJOR A TRAGIC STORY by ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO JOGGIN' ERLONG by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE POOL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE SONG OF THE SHIRT by THOMAS HOOD LOST AND FOUND by GEORGE MACDONALD |