Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest
Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest,
Whose heavenly gifts, increasèd by disdain
And virtue, sank the deeper in his breast:
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stith, where that some work of fame
Was daily wrought to turn to Britain's gain.
A visage stern and mild, where both did grow
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice;
Amid great storms whom grace assurèd so
To live upright and smile at fortune's choice.
A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme,
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit--
A mark the which, unperfited for time,
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.
A tongue that served in foreign realms his king
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame
Each noble heart: a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travail unto fame.
An eye whose judgment none affect could blind,
Friends to allure and foes to reconcile,
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposèd, void of guile.
A heart where dread yet never so impressed
To hide the thought that might the truth advance;
In neither fortune loft nor yet repressed
To swell in wealth or yield unto mischance.
A valiant corpse where force and beauty met,
Happy--alas, too happy, but for foes;
Lived and ran the race that Nature set,
Of manhood's shape, where she the mold did lose.
But to the heavens hat simple soul is fled,
Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,
Witness of faith that never shall be dead,
Sent for our health, but not receivèd so.
Thus for our guilt, this jewel have we lost;
The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.