Thou like the dying swan didst lately sing, Thy mournful dirge in audience of the King; When pale looks and faint accents of thy breath, Presented so to life that piece of death, That it was fear'd and prophesy'd by all Thou thither cam'st to preach thy funeral. Oh! had'st thou in an elegiac knell Rung out unto the world thine own farewell And in thy high victorious numbers beat The solemn measures of thy griev'd retreat, Thou might'st the Poet's service now have miss'd As well as then thou didst prevent the Priest; And never to the world beholden be,
So much as for an epitaph for thee.
I do not like the office; nor is't fit
Thou, who didst lend our age such sums of wit, Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt mine That ore to bury thee which first was thine : Rather still leave us in thy debt; and know, Exalted soul, more glory 'tis to owe
Thy memory what we can never pay, Than with embased coin those rites defray.
Commit we then Thee to Thyself, nor blame Our drooping loves, that thus to thine own fame Leave Thee executor, since but thine own
No pen could do thee justice, nor bays crown Thy vast deserts; save that we nothing can Depute, to be thy ashes' guardian.
So Jewellers no art or metal trust,
To form the diamond, but the diamond's dust.
OUR Donne is dead! and we may sighing say, We had that man, where language chose to stay, And shew her utmost power. I would not praise That, and his great wit, which in our vain days Make others proud; but as these serv'd to unlock That cabinet his mind, where such a stock Of knowledge was repos'd, that I lament Our just and general cause of discontent.
And I rejoice I am not so severe, But as I write a line, to weep a tear For his decease; such sad extremities Can make such men as I write elegies.
And wonder not; for when so great a loss Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross, God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken them From their dull lethargy; witness my 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 thou'rt worse:
Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse
Of black ingratitude: if not, couldst thou
Part with this matchless man, and make no vow For thee and thine successively to pay Some sad remembrance to his dying day?
Did his youth scatter Poetry, wherein Lay Love's Philosophy? was every sin Pictur'd in his sharp Satires, made so foul,
That some have fear'd sin's shapes, and kept their soul
Safer by reading verse; Did he give days,
Past marble monuments, to those whose praise
He would perpetuate? Did he-I fear Envy will doubt-these at his twentieth year ?
But, more matur'd, did his rich soul conceive And in harmonious holy numbers weave A Crown of Sacred Sonnets,* fit t' adorn A dying martyr's brow, or to be worn On that blest head of Mary Magdalen, After she wip'd Christ's feet, but not till then; Did he fit for such penitents as she And he to use-leave us a Litany,†
Which all devout men love, and doubtless shall, As times grow better, grow more classical? Did he write Hymns, for piety and wit, Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ? Spake he all Languages? Knew he all Laws? The grounds and use of Physic; but, because 'Twas mercenary, wav'd it? went to see That happy place of Christ's nativity?
Did he return and preach him? preach him so, As since St. Paul none ever did? they know- Those happy souls that heard him-know this truth. Did he confirm thy ag'd? convert thy youth?
* "La Corona," a poem, written by Dr. Donne, and consisting of seven holy sonnets, the first line of each sonnet beginning with the last line of the preceding one, the poem beginning and ending with the same line—namely
Deigne at my hands this crown of prayer and praise."
The subjects are- -Annunciation-Nativitie-Temple-crucifying-Resurrection
† A poem so called, written by Dr. Donne, who, in a letter to his friend, Sir Henry Goodyere, gives this account of it. "Since my imprisonment in my bed I have made a meditation in verse, which I call a Litany. The word, you know, imports no other than supplication; but all churches have one form of supplication by that name. Amongst ancient annals, I mean some 800 years, I have met two Litanies in Latin verse, which gave me not the reason of my meditations; for in good faith I thought not upon them, but they give me a defence, if any man to a Layman and a Private impute it as a fault to take such divine and publique names to his own little thoughts." (Letters, &c. p. 32.)
Did he these wonders? and is his dear loss Mourn'd by so few ? few for so great a cross.
But sure the silent are ambitious all To be close mourners of his funeral. If not, in common pity they forbear By repetitions to renew our care:
Or knowing grief conceiv'd and hid, consumes Man's life insensibly,-as poison's fumes
Corrupt the brain,-take silence for the way T'enlarge the soul from these walls, mud and clay,-
Materials of this body-to remain
With him in heaven, where no promiscuous pain Lessens those joys we have; for with him all Are satisfied with joys essential.
Dwell on these joys, my thoughts! Oh! do not call Grief back, by thinking on his funeral.
Forget he loved me: waste not my swift years, Which haste to David's seventy, fill'd with fears And sorrows for his death: forget his parts, They find a living grave in good men's hearts: And, for my first is daily paid for sin, Forget to pay my second sigh for him: Forget his powerful preaching; and forget I am his convert. Oh my frailty! let My flesh be no more heard; it will obtrude This lethargy so should my gratitude, My vows of gratitude should so be broke Which can no more be, than his virtues, spoke By any but himself: for which cause, I
Write no encomiums, but this elegy;
Which, as a free-will offering, I here give
Fame and the world; and parting with it, grieve
I want abilities fit to set forth
A monument, as matchless as his worth.
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