Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
The EPITAPH.
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Iter boreale | ||
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The EPITAPH.
Here a poor Minister of Christ doth lie,Who did INDEED a Bishoprick deny.
When his Lord comes, then, then the World shall see
Such humble Ones, the rising-Men shall be.
How many Saints whom he had sent before,
Shouted to see him enter Heavens door:
There his blest Soul beholds the face of God,
While we below groan out our Ichabod.
Under his burned-Church his Body lies,
But shall it self a glorious Temple rise:
May his kind flock when a new Church they make,
Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake.
R. W.
Iter boreale | ||