John Beaumont

1583-1627 / England

Of My Deare Sonne,

CAN I, who haue for others oft compil'd
The Songs of Death, forget my sweetest child.
Which like a flow'r crusht, with a blast is dead,
And ere full time hangs downe his smiling head,
Expecting with cleare hope to liue anew,
Among the Angels fed with heau'nly dew?
We haue this signe of Ioy, that many dayes,
While on the earth his struggling spirit stayes,
The name of Iesus in his mouth containes,
His onely food, his sleepe, his ease from paines.
O may that sound be rooted in my mind,
Of which in him such strong effect I find.
Deare Lord, receiue my Sonne, whose winning loue
To me was like a friendship, farre aboue
The course of nature, or his tender age,
Whose lookes could all my bitter griefes asswage;
Let his pure soule ordain'd seu'n yeeres to be
In that fraile body, which was part of me,
Remaine my pledge in heau'n, as sent to shew,
How to this Port at eu'ry step I goe.
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