Poems, Poems 4
Elegies upon the Author.
TO THE MEMORIE OF MY EVER DESIRED FRIEND Dr. DONNE:
TO have liv'd eminent, in a degree
Beyond our lofty'ſt flights, that is, like Thee,
Or t'have had too much merit, is not ſafe;
For, ſuch exceſſes finde no Epitaph.
At common graves we have Poetique eyes
Can melt themſelves in eaſie Elegies,
Each quill can drop his tributary verſe,
And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearſe:
But at Thine, Poeme, or Inſcription
(Rich ſoule of wit, and language) we have none.
Indeed a ſilence does that tombe befit,
Where is no Herald left to blazon it.
Widow'd invention juſtly doth forbeare
To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here,
Late her great Patron; Whoſe Prerogative
Maintain'd, and cloth'd her ſo, as none alive
Muſt now preſume, to keepe her at thy rate,
Though he the Indies for her dowre eſtate.
Or elſe that awfull fire, which once did burne
In thy cleare Braine, now falne into thy Urne
Lives there, to fright rude Empiricks from thence,
Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance.
Who ever writes of Thee, and in a ſtile
Unworthy ſuch a Theme, does but revile
Thy precious Duſt, and wake a learned Spirit
Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit.
For, all a low pitch't phanſie can deviſe,
Will prove, at beſt, but Hallow'd Injuries.
Thou, like the dying Swanne, didſt lately ſing
Thy Mournfull Dirge, in audience of the King;
When pale lookes, and faint accents of thy breath,
Preſented ſo, to life, that peece of death,
That it was fear'd, and propheſi'd by all,
Thou thither cam'ſt to preach thy Funerall.
O! had'ſt Thou in an Elegiacke Knell
Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell,
And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate
The ſolemne meaſure of thy griev'd Retreat;
Thou might'ſt the Poets ſervice now have miſt
As well, as then thou did'ſt prevent the Prieſt;
And never to the world beholding bee
So much, as for an Epitaph for thee.
I doe not like the office. Nor is 't fit
Thou, who did'ſt lend our Age ſuch ſummes of wit,
Should'ſt now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine,
That Ore to Bury Thee, which once was Thine.
Rather ſtill leave us in thy debt; And know
(Exalted Soule) more glory 't is to owe
Unto thy Hearſe, what we can never pay,
Then, with embaſed Coine thoſe Rites defray.
Commit we then Thee to Thy ſelfe: Nor blame
Our drooping loves, which thus to thy owne Fame
Leave Thee Executour. Since, but thine owne,
No pen could doe Thee Juſtice, nor Bayes Crowne
Thy vaſt deſert; Save that, wee nothing can
Depute, to be thy Aſhes Guardian.
So Jewellers no Art, or Metall truſt
To forme the Diamond, but the Diamonds duſt,
H. K.
To the deceaſed Author, Upon the Promiſcuous printing of his Poems, the Looſer ſort, with the Religious.
WHen thy Looſe raptures, Donne, ſhall meet with Thoſe
That doe confine
Tuning, unto the Duller line,
And ſing not, but in Sanctified Proſe;
How will they, with ſharper eyes,
The Fore-skinne of thy phanſie circumciſe?
And feare, thy wantonneſſe ſhould now, begin
Example, that hath ceaſed to be Sin?
And that Feare fannes their Heat; whilſt knowing eyes
Will not admire
At this Strange Fire,
That here is mingled with thy Sacrifice:
But dare reade even thy Wanton Story,
As thy Confeſsion, not thy Glory.
And will ſo envie Both to future times,
That they would buy thy Goodneſſe, with thy Crimes.
Tho: Browne
On the death of Dr DONNE.
I Cannot blame thoſe men, that knew thee well,
Yet dare not helpe the world, to ring thy knell
In tunefull Elegies; there's not language knowne
Fit for thy mention, but 'twas firſt thy owne;
The Epitaphs thou writſt, have ſo bereft
Our tongue of wit, there is not phanſie left
Enough to weepe thee; what henceforth we ſee
Of Art or Nature, muſt reſult from thee.
There may perchance ſome buſie gathering friend
Steale from thy owne workes, and that, varied, lend,
Which thou beſtow'ſt on others, to thy Hearſe,
And ſo thou ſhalt live ſtill in thine owne verſe;
Hee that ſhall venture farther, may commit
A pitied errour, ſhew his zeale, not wit.
Fate hath done mankinde wrong; vertue may aime
Reward of conſcience, never can, of fame,
Since her great trumpet's broke, could onelyonly give
Faith to the world, command it to beleeve;
Hee then muſt write, that world define thy parts:
Here lyes the beſt Divinitie, All the Arts.
Edw. Hyde.
On Doctor Donne, By Dr C. B. of O.
HEe that would write an Epitaph for thee,
And do it well, muſt firſt beginne to be
Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd ſo;
He muſt have wit to ſpare and to hurle downe:
Enough, to keepe the gallants of the towne.
He muſt have learning plenty; both the Lawes,
Civill, and Common, to judge any cauſe;
Divinity great ſtore, above the reſt;
Not of the laſt Edition, but the beſt.
Hee muſt have language, travaile, all the Arts;
Judgement to uſe; or elſe he wants thy parts.
He muſt have friends the higheſt, able to do;
Such as Mecoenas, and Auguſtus too.
He muſt have ſuch a ſickneſſe, ſuch a death;
Or elſe his vaine deſcriptions come beneath;
Who then ſhall write an Epitaph for thee▪
He muſt be dead firſt, let'it alone for mee.
An Elegie upon the incomparable Dr DONNE.
ALl is not well when ſuch a one as I
Dare peepe abroad, and write an Elegie;
When ſmaller Starres appeare, and give their light,
Phoebus is gone to bed: Were it not night,
And the world witleſſe now that DONNE is dead,
You ſooner ſhould have broke, then ſeene my head.
Dead did I ſay? Forgive this Injury
I doe him, and his worthes Infinity,
To ſay he is but dead; I dare averre
It better may be term'd a Maſſacre,
Then Sleepe or Death; See how the Muſes mourne
Upon their oaten Reeds, and from his Vrne
Threaten the World with this Calamity,
They ſhall have Ballads, but no Poetry.
Language lyes ſpeechleſſe; and Divinity,
Loſt ſuch a Trump as even to Extaſie
Could charme the Soule, and had an Influence
To teach beſt judgements, and pleaſe dulleſt Senſe.
The Court, the Church, the Vniverſitie,
Loſt Chaplaine, Deane, and Doctor, All theſe, Three.
It was his Merit, that his Funerall
Could cauſe a loſſe ſo great and generall.
If there be any Spirit can anſwer give
Of ſuch as hence depart, to ſuch as live:
Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate,
Crumble to duſt, and feele the lawes of Fate?
Me thinkes, Corruption, Wormes, what elſe is foule
Should ſpare the Temple of ſo faire a Soule.
I could beleeve they doe; but that I know
What inconvenience might hereafter grow:
Succeeding ages would Idolatrize,
And as his Numbers, ſo his Reliques prize.
If that Philoſopher, which did avow
The world to be but Mores, was living now:
He would affirme that th'Atomes of his mould
Were they in ſeverall bodies blended, would
Produce new worlds of Travellers, Divines,
Of Linguiſts, Poets: ſith theſe ſeverall Lines
In him concentred were, and flowing thence
Might fill againe the worlds Circumference.
I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith
Not want a Preſident: The Phoenix hath
(And ſuch was He) a power to animate
Her aſhes, and herſelfe perpetuate.
But, buſie Soule, thou doſt not well to pry
Into theſe Secrets; Griefe, and Iealouſie,
The more they know, the further ſtill advance,
And finde no way ſo ſafe as Ignorance.
Let this ſuffice thee, that his Soule which flew
A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few,
(Save thoſe of purer mould) is now tranſlated
From Earth to Heavên, and there Conſtellated.
For, if each Prieſt of God ſhine as a Starre,
His Glory is as his Gifts, 'bove others farre.
HEN. VALENTINE.
An Elegie upon Dr Donne.
IS Donne, great Donne deceas'd? then England ſay
Thou'haſt loſt a man where language choſe to ſtay
And ſhew it's gracefull power. I would not praiſe
That and his vaſt wit (which in theſe vaine dayes
Make many proud) but as they ſerv'd to unlock
That Cabinet, his minde: where ſuch a ſtock
Of knoweledge was repos'd, as all lament
(Or ſhould) this generall cauſe of diſcontent.
And I rejoyce I am not ſo ſevere,
But (as I write a line) to weepe a teare
For his deceaſe; Such ſad extremities
May make ſuch men as I write Elegies.
And wonder not; for, when a generall loſſe
Falls on a nation, and they ſlight the croſſe,
God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken them
From ſtupifaction; witneſſe my milde pen,
Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it muſt
Freely and boldly, for, the cauſe is juſt.
Dull age, Oh I would ſpare thee, but th'art worſe,
Thou art not onelyonly dull, but haſt a curſe
Of black ingratitude; if not, couldſt thou
Part with miraculous Donne, and make no vow
For thee and thine, ſucceſſively to pay
A ſad remembrance to his dying day?
Did his youth ſcatter Poetrie, wherein
Was all Philoſophie? Was every ſinne,
Character'd in his Satyres? made ſo foule
That ſome have fear'd their ſhapes, & kept their ſoule
Freer by reading verſe? Did he give dayes
Paſt marble monuments, to thoſe, whoſe praiſe
He would perpetuate? Did hee (I feare
The dull will doubt:) theſe at his twentieth yeare?
But, more matur'd: Did his full ſoule conceive,
And in harmonious-holy-numbers weave
A Crowme of ſacred ſonets, La Corona.fit to adorne
A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worne
On that bleſt head of Mary Magdalen:
After ſhe wip'd Chriſts feet, but not till then?
Did hee (fit for ſuch penitents as ſhee
And hee to uſe) leave us a Litany?
Which all devout men love, and ſure, it ſhall,
As times grow better, grow more claſſicall.
Did he write Hymnes, for piety and wit
Equall to thoſe great grave Prudentius writ?
Spake he all Languages? knew he all Lawes?
The grounds and uſe of Phyſicke; but becauſe
'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to ſee
That bleſſed place of Chriſts nativity?
Did he returne and preach him? preach him ſo
As none but hee did, or could do? They know
(Such as were bleſt to heare him know) 'tis truth.
Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth?
Did he theſe wonders? And is this deare loſſe
Mourn'd by ſo few? (few for ſo great a croſſe.)
But ſure the ſilent are ambitious all
To be Cloſe Mourners at his Funerall;
If not; In common pitty they forbare
By repetitions to renew our care;
Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, conſumes
Man irreparably, (as poyſon'd fumes
Do waſte the braine) make ſilence a fafe way
To'inlarge the Soule from theſe walls, mud and clay,
(Materialls of this body) to remaine
With Donne in heaven, where no promiſcuous paine
Leſſens the joy wee have, for, with him, all
Are ſatisfyed with joyes eſſentiall.
My thoughts, Dwell on this Ioy, and do not call
Griefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall;
Forget he lov'd mee; Waſte not my ſad yeares;
(Which haſte to Davids ſeventy) fill'd with feares
And ſorrow for his death;) Forget his parts,
Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts;
And, (for, my firſt is daily paid for ſinne)
Forget to pay my ſecond ſigh for him:
Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget
I am his Convert. Oh my frailtie! let
My fleſh be no more heard, it will obtrude
This lethargie: ſo ſhould my gratitude,
My vowes of gratitude ſhould ſo be broke;
Which can no more be, then Donnes vertues ſpoke
By any but himſelfe; for which cauſe, I
Write no Encomium, but an Elegie.
IZ. WA.
An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, Dr. Iohn Donne: By Mr. Tho: Carie.
CAn we not force from widdowed Poetry,
Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegie
To crowne thy Hearſe? Why yet dare we not truſt
Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't proſe thy duſt,
Such as the unciſor'd Churchman from the flower
Of fading Rhetorique, ſhort liv'd as his houre,
Dry as the ſand that meaſures it, ſhould lay
Upon thy Aſhes, on the funerall day?
Have we no voice, no tune? Did'ſt thou diſpenſe
Through all our language, both the words and ſenſe?
'Tis a ſad truth; The Pulpit may her plaine,
And ſober Chriſtian precepts ſtill retaine,
Doctrines it may, and wholeſome Uſes frame,
Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame
Of thy brave Soule, that ſhot ſuch heat and light,
As burnt our earth, and made our darkneſſe bright,
Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,
Did through the eye the melting heart diſtill;
And the deepe knowledge of darke truths ſo teach,
As ſenſe might judge, what phanſie could not reach;
Muſt be deſir'd for ever. So the fire,
That fills with ſpirit and heat the Delphique quire,
Which kindled firſt by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death;
The Muſes garden with Pedantique weedes
O'rſpred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie ſeeds
Of ſervile imitation throwne away;
And freſh invention planted, Thou didſt pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage
A Mimique fury, when our ſoules muſt bee
Poſſeſt, or with Anacreons Extaſie,
Or Pindars, not their owne; The ſubtle cheat
Of ſlie Exchanges, and the jugling feat
Of two-edg'd words, or whatſoever wrong
By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue,
Thou haſt redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine
Of rich and pregnant phanſie, drawne a line
Of maſculine expreſſion, which had good
Old Orpheus ſeene, Or all the ancient Brood
Our ſuperſtitious fooles admire, and hold
Their lead more precious, then thy burniſh't Gold,
Thou hadſt beene their Exchequer, and no more
They each in others duſt, had rak'd for Ore.
Thou ſhalt yield no precedence, but of time,
And the blinde fate of language, whoſe tun'd chime
More charmes the outward ſenſe; Yet thou maiſt claime
From ſo great diſadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our ſtubborne language bends, made only fit
With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about
Thy Giant phanſie, which had prov'd too ſtout
For their ſoft melting Phraſes. As in time
They had the ſtart, ſo did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred yeare,
And left the rifled fields, beſides the feare
To touch their Harveſt, yet from thoſe bare lands
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands
(And that thy ſmalleſt worke) have gleaned more
Then all thoſe times, and tongues could reape before;
But thou art gone, and thy ſtrict lawes will be
Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie.
They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine
Of gods and goddeſſes, which in thy juſt raigne
Were baniſh'd nobler Poems, now, with theſe
The ſilenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoſes
Shall ſtuffe their lines, and ſwell the windy Page,
Till Verſe refin'd by thee, in this laſt Age,
Turne ballad rime, Or thoſe old Idolls bee
Ador'd againe, with new apoſtaſie;
Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verſe
The reverend ſilence that attends thy herſe,
Whoſe awfull ſolemne murmures were to thee
More then theſe faint lines, A loud Elegie,
That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence
The death of all the Arts, whoſe influence
Growne feeble, in theſe panting numbers lies
Gaſping ſhort winded Accents, and ſo dies:
So doth the ſwiftly turning wheele not ſtand
In th'inſtant we withdraw the moving hand,
But ſome ſmall time maintaine a faint weake courſe
By vertue of the firſt impulſive force:
And ſo whil'ſt I caſt on thy funerall pile
Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while,
And ſpit diſdaine, till the devouring flaſhes
Suck all the moyſture up, then turne to aſhes.
I will not draw the envy to engroſſe
All thy perfections, or weepe all our loſſe;
Thoſe are too numerous for an Elegie,
And this too great, to be expreſs'd by mee.
Though every pen ſhould ſhare a diſtinct part,
Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art;
Let others carve the reſt, it ſhall ſuffice
I on thy Tombe this Epitaph inciſe.
Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit
The univerſall Monarchy of wit;
Here lie two Flamens, and both thoſe, the beſt,
Apollo's firſt, at laſt, the true Gods Prieſt.
An Elegie on Dr. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie.
POets attend, the Elegie I ſing
Both of a doubly-named Prieſt, and King:
In ſtead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verſe,
For you muſt bee chiefe mourners at his Hearſe,
A Tombe your Muſe muſt to his Fame ſupply,
No other Monuments can never die;
And as he was a two-fold Prieſt; in youth,
Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth,
Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who choſe him for
His extraordinary Embaſſador,
So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne,
Both having ſhares, both muſt in griefe combine:
Whil'ſt Johnſon forceth with his Elegie
Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye,
(Like Moſes at whoſe ſtroke the waters guſht
From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent ruſht.)
Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and ſhew
Thoſe vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know,
Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares
To be good friday, by the Churches Teares;
Yet make not griefe too long oppreſſe our Powers,
Leaſt that his funerall Sermon ſhould prove ours.
Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence,
With which he did the bread of life diſpenſe,
Preacher and Orator diſcharg'd both parts
With pleaſure for our ſenſe, health for our hearts,
And the firſt ſuch (Though a long ſtudied Art
Tell us our ſoule is all in every part,)
None was ſo marble, but whil'ſt him he heares,
His Soule ſo long dwelt only in his eares.
And from thence (with the fierceneſſe of a flood
Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that bleſt food
Their hearts; His ſeed in none could faile to grow,
Fertile he found them all, or made them ſo:
No Druggiſt of the Soule beſtow'd on all
So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall.
Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his ſtore,
His words work'd much, but his example more,
That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie
It ſelfe was oftentimes divinity,
Thoſe Anthemes (almoſt ſecond Pſalmes) he writ
To make us know the Croſſe, and value it,
(Although we owe that reverence to that name
Wee ſhould not need warmth from an under flame.)
Creates a fire in us, ſo neare extreme
That we would die, for, and upon this theme.
Next, his ſo pious Litany, which none can
But count Divine, except a Puritan,
And that but for the name, nor this, nor thoſe
Want any thing of Sermons, but the proſe.
Experience makes us ſee, that many a one
Owes to his Countrey his Religion;
And in another, would as ſtrongly grow,
Had but his Nurſe and Mother taught him ſo,
Not hee the ballaſt on his Judgement hung;
Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong;
He labour'd to exclude what ever ſinne
By time or careleſſeneſſe had entred in;
Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath
A too hot zeale ſhould force him, burne them both;
Nor would allow of that ſo ignorant gall,
Which to ſave blotting often would blot all;
Nor did thoſe barbarous opinions owne,
To thinke the Organs ſinne, and faction, none;
Nor was there expectation to gaine grace
From forth his Sermons only, but his face;
So Primitive a looke, ſuch gravitie
With humbleneſſe, and both with Pietie;
So milde was Moſes countenance, when he prai'd
For them whoſe Sataniſme his power gain ſaid;
And ſuch his gravitie, when all Gods band
Receiv' his word (through him) at ſecond hand;
Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move
Then ever Argive Hellens could of love.
Now to conclude, I muſt my reaſon bring,
Where fore I call'd him in his title King,
That Kingdome the Philoſophers beleev'd
To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd
By feare of loſſe (that being ſuch a Prey
No ſtronger then ones ſelfe can force away)
The Kingdome of ones ſelfe, this he enjoy'd,
And his authoritie ſo well employ'd,
That never any could before become
So Great a Monarch, in ſo ſmall a roome;
He conquer'd rebell paſſions, rul'd them ſo,
As under-ſpheares by the firſt Mover goe,
Baniſh't ſo farre their working, that we can
But know he had ſome, for we knew him man.
Then let his laſt excuſe his firſt extremes,
His age ſaw viſions, though his youth dream'd dreams.
On Dr. DONNES death: By Mr. Mayne of Chriſt-Church in Oxford.
WHo ſhall preſume to mourn thee, Donne, unleſſe
He could his teares in thy expreſſions dreſſe,
And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearſe,
To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverſe,
A Poëme of that worth, whoſe every teare
Deſerves the title of a ſeverall yeare.
Indeed ſo farre above its Reader, good,
That wee are thought wits, when 'tis underſtood,
There that bleſt maid to die, who now ſhould grieve?
After thy ſorrow, 'twere her loſſe to live;
And her faire vertues in anothers line,
Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine.
Hadſt thou beene ſhallower, and not writ ſo high,
Or left ſome new way for our pennes, or eye,
To ſhed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe
Had not beene ſpeechleſſe, or our Muſes dumbe;
But now wee dare not write, but muſt conceale
Thy Epitaph, leſt we be thought to ſteale,
For, who hath read thee, and diſcernes thy worth,
That will not ſay, thy careleſſe houres brought forth
Fancies beyond our ſtudies, and thy play
Was happier, then our ſerious time of day?
So learned was thy chance; thy haſte had wit,
And matter from thy pen flow'd raſhly fit,
What was thy recreation turnes our braine,
Our rack and paleneſſe, is thy weakeſt ſtraine.
And when we moſt come neere thee, 'tis our bliſſe
To imitate thee, where thou doſt amiſſe,
Here light your muſe, you that do onelyonly thinke,
And write, and are juſt Poëts, as you drinke,
In whoſe weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow,
Juſt as your recknings riſe, that wee may know
In your whole carriage of your worke, that here
This flaſh you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere,
This is to tap your Muſe, which running long
Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe ſo ſtrong;
Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup,
Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up.
Could you but reach this height, you ſhould not need
To make, each meale, a project ere you feed,
Nor walke in reliques, clothes ſo old and bare,
As if left off to you from Ennius were,
Nor ſhould your love, in verſe, call Miſtreſſe, thoſe,
Who are mine hoſteſſe, or your whores in proſe;
From this Muſe learne to Court, whoſe power could move
A Cloyſtred coldneſſe, or a Veſtall love,
And would convey ſuch errands to their eare,
That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare;
But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praiſe
Is written onelyonly for thy yonger dayes.
I am not growne up, for thy riper parts,
Then ſhould I praiſe thee, through the Tongues, and Arts,
And have that deepe Divinity, to know,
What myſteries did from thy preaching flow,
Who with thy words could charme thy audience,
That at thy ſermons, eare was all our ſenſe;
Yet have I ſeene thee in the pulpit ſtand,
Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand;
And from thy ſpeaking action beare away
More Sermon, then ſome teachers uſe to ſay.
Such was thy carriage, and thy geſture ſuch,
As could divide the heart, and conſcience touch.
Thy motion did confute, and wee might ſee
An errour vanquiſh'd by delivery.
Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme
Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit ſtorme,
And beate the cuſhion into worſe eſtate,
Then if they did conclude it reprobate,
Who can out pray the glaſſe, then lay about
Till all Predeſtination be runne out.
And from the point ſuch tedious uſes draw,
Their repetitions would make Goſpell, Law.
No, In ſuch temper would thy Sermons flow,
So well did Doctrine, and thy language ſhow,
And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee,
The Court would mend, and a good Chriſtian bee.
And Ladies though unhanſome, out of grace,
Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, & face▪
More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne,
Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne.
Ʋpon Mr J. Donne, and his Poems.
VVHo dares ſay thou art dead, when he doth ſee
(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?
This part that to thy beeing gives freſh flame,
And though th'art Donne, yet will preſerve thy name.
Thy fleſh (whoſe channels left their crimſen hew,
And whey-like ranne at laſt in a pale blew)
May ſhew thee mortall, a dead palſie may
Seiſe on't, and quickly turne it into clay;
Which like the Indian earth, ſhall riſe refin'd:
But this great Spirit thou haſt left behinde,
This Soule of Verſe (in it's firſt pure eſtate)
Shall live, for all the World to imitate▪
But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight
Thou doſt not ſtoope unto the vulgar ſight,
But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit,
Hold'ſt ſuch a pitch, that few can follow it;
Admire they may. Each object that the Spring
(Or a more piercing influence) doth bring
T'adorne Earths face, thou ſweetly did'ſt contrive
To beauties elements, and thence derive
Unſpotted Lillies white; which thou did'ſt ſet
Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,
Making them ſoft, and warme, and by thy power,
Could'ſt give both life, and ſenſe, unto a flower.
The Cheries thou haſt made to ſpeake, will bee
Sweeter unto the taſte, then from the tree.
And (ſpight of winter ſtormes) amidſt the ſnow
Thou oft haſt made the bluſhing Roſe to grow.
The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe,
Have ſent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe
To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew
More luſtre to them, then where firſt they grew.
All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold
Promiſcuouſly) thou couldſt convert to gold,
And with thy flaming raptures ſo refine,
That it was much more pure then in the Mine.
The lights that guild the night, if thou did'ſt ſay,
They looke like eyes, thoſe did out-ſhine the day;
For there would be more vertue in ſuch ſpells,
Then in Meridians, or croſſe Parallels:
What ever was of worth in this great Frame,
That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,
It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didſt ſee,
Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie.
Thy nimble Satyres too, and every ſtraine
(With nervy ſtrength) that iſſued from thy brain,
Will loſe the glory of their owne cleare bayes,
If they admit of any others praiſe.
But thy diviner Poëms (whoſe cleare fire
Purges all droſſe away) ſhall by a Quire
Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be ſet
(Where fleſh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet)
There pureſt Spirits ſing ſuch ſacred Layes,
In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.
Arth. Wilſon.
In memory of Doctor Donne: By Mr R. B.
DOnne dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I
Ne'r yet ſo much deſir'd to heare a lye,
'Tis too too true, for ſo wee finde it ſtill,
Good newes are often falſe, but ſeldome, ill:
But muſt poore fame tell us his fatall day,
And ſhall we know his death, the common way,
Mee thinkes ſome Comet bright ſhould have foretold
The death of ſuch a man, for though of old
'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell,
Why ſhould not his, have needed one as well?
Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongſt whom he reign'd,
High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd?
Yet wants he not his ſigne, for wee have ſeene
A dearth, the like to which hath never beene,
Treading on harveſts heeles, which doth preſage
The death of wit and learning, which this age
Shall finde, now he is gone; for though there bee
Much graine in ſhew, none brought it forth as he,
Or men are miſers; or if true want raiſes
The dearth, then more that dearth Donnes plenty praiſes.
Of learning, languages, of eloquence,
And Poëſie, (paſt rauiſhing of ſenſe,)
He had a magazine, wherein ſuch ſtore
Was laid up, as might hundreds ſerve of poore.
But he is gone, O how will his deſire
Torture all thoſe that warm'd them by his fire?
Mee thinkes I ſee him in the pulpit ſtanding,
Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding,
Where wee that heard him, to our ſelves did faine
Golden Chryſoſtome was alive againe;
And never were we weari'd, till we ſaw
His houre (and but an houre) to end did draw.
How did he ſhame the doctrine-men, and uſe,
With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuſe
Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence
Of time, O ſpent in hearkning to non-ſenſe,
With markes alſo, enough whereby to know,
The ſpeaker is a zealous dunce, or ſo.
'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power,
They humm'd againſt him; And with face moſt ſowre:
Call'd him a ſtrong lin'd man, a Macaroon,
And no way fit to ſpeake to clouted ſhoone,
As fine words [truly] as you would deſire,
But [verily,] but a bad edifier.
Thus did theſe beetles ſlight in him that good,
They could not ſee, and much leſſe underſtood.
But we may ſay, when we compare the ſtuffe
Both brought; He was a candle, they the ſnuffe.
Well, Wiſedome's of her children juſtifi'd,
Let therefore theſe poore fellowes ſtand aſide;
Nor, though of learning he deſerv'd ſo highly,
Would I his booke ſhould ſave him; Rather ſlily
I ſhould adviſe his Clergie not to pray,
Though of the learn'dſt ſort; Me thinkes that they
Of the ſame trade, are Judges not ſo fit,
There's no ſuch emulation as of wit.
Of ſuch, the Envy might as much perchance
Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance.
It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd
As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd;
And why? but 'cauſe he came late in the day,
And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they.
No more of this, leaſt ſome ſhould ſay, that I
Am ſtrai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie.
No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd,
A Jury I would ſummon on his ſide,
That had no ſides, nor factions, paſt the touch
Of all exceptions, freed from Paſſion, ſuch
As nor to feare nor fratter, e'r were bred,
Theſe would I bring, though called from the dead:
Southampton, Hambleton, Pēbrooke, Dorſets Earles,
Huntingdon, Bedfords Counteſſes (the Pearles
Once of each ſexe.) If theſe ſuffice not, I
Ten decem tales have of Standers by:
All which, for DONNE, would ſuch a verdict give,
As can belong to none, that now doth live.
But what doe I? A diminution 'tis
To ſpeake of him in verſe, ſo ſhort of his,
Whereof he was the maſter; All indeed
Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed.
O that you had but one 'mongſt all your brothers
Could write for him, as he hath done for others:
(Poets I ſpeake to) When I ſee't, I'll ſay,
My eye-ſight betters, as my yeares decay,
Meane time a quarrell I ſhall ever have
Againſt theſe doughty keepers from the grave,
Who uſe, it ſeemes their old Authoritie,
When (Verſes men immortall make) they cry:
Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd,
Probatum eſſet, DONNE had never dy'd.
For mee, if e'r I had leaſt ſparke at all
Of that which they Poetique fire doe call,
Here I confeſſe it fetched from his hearth,
Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.
This only a poore flaſh, a lightning is
Before my Muſes death, as after his.
Farewell (faire ſoule) and deigne receive from mee
This Type of that devotion I owe thee,
From whom (while living) as by voice and penne
I learned more, then from a thouſand men:
So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd,
And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.
Epitaph.
HEere lies Deane Donne; Enough; Thoſe words
Shew him as fully, as if all the ſtone
His Church of Pauls contains, were through inſcrib'd alone
Or all the walkers there, to ſpeake him, brib'd.
None can miſtake him, for one ſuch as Hee
DONNE, Deane, or Man, more none ſhall ever ſee.
Not man? No, though unto a Sunne each eye
Were turn'd, the whole earth ſo to overſpie,
A bold brave word; Yet ſuch brave Spirits as knew
His Spirit, will ſay, it is leſſe bold then true.
Epitaph upon Dr. DONNE, By Endy: Porter.
THis decent Urne a ſad inſcription weares,
Of Donnes departure from us, to the ſpheares;
And the dumbe ſtone with ſilence ſeemes to tell
The changes of this life, wherein is well
Expreſt, A cauſe to make all joy to ceaſe,
And never let our ſorrowes more take eaſe;
For now it is impoſſible to finde
One fraught with vertues, to inrich a minde;
But why ſhould death, with a promiſcuous hand
At one rude ſtroke impoveriſh a land?
Thou ſtrict Attorney, unto ſtricter Fate,
Didſt thou confiſcate his life out of hate
To his rare Parts? Or didſt thou throw thy dart,
With envious hand, at ſome Plebeyan heart;
And he with pious vertue ſtept betweene
To ſave that ſtroke, and ſo was kill'd unſeene
By thee? O 'twas his goodneſſe ſo to doe,
Which humane kindneſſe never reacht unto.
Thus the hard lawes of death were ſatisfi'd,
And he left us like Orphan friends, and di'de.
Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares,
Whoſe ſpeech ſhall ſend repentant ſighes, and teares?
Or tell mee, if a purer Virgin die,
Who ſhall hereafter write her Elegie?
Poets be ſilent, let your numbers ſleepe,
For he is gone that did all phanſie keepe;
Time hath no Soule, but his exalted verſe;
Which with amazements, we may now reherſe.
FINIS
End of the text · John Donne, Poems (1633)