Simon Wastell.
LIII
OF MY DEAR SON GERVASE BEAUMONT.
Can I, who have for others oft compiled
The songs of death, forget my sweetest child,
Which, like the flower crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs down his smiling head,
Expecting with clear hope to live anew, 5
Among the angels fed with heavenly dew?
We have this sign of joy, that many days,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stays,