And as he was a twofold priest; in youth,
Apollo's; afterwards the voice of truth;
God's conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for
His extraordinary ambassador:
So let his liegers with the poets join:
Both having shares, both must in grief combine:
Whilst Jonson forceth with his elegy
Tears from a grief-unknowing Scythian's eye,
(Like Moses, at whose stroke the waters gush'd
From forth the rock, and like a torrent rush'd.)
Let Laud his funeral sermon preach, and show
Those virtues, dull eyes were not apt to know;
Nor leave that piercing theme, till it appears
To be Good Friday by the church's tears:
Yet make not grief too long oppress our powers,
Lest that his funeral 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 study'd art
Tell us, our soul is all in every part)
None was so marble, but, whilst him he hears,
His soul so long dwelt only in his ears;
And from thence (with the fierceness of a flood
Bearing down vice) victuall'd with that bless'd food
Their hearts: his seed in none could fail to grow,
Fertile he found them all, or made them so:
No druggist of the soul bestow'd on all
So catholicly a curing cordial.
Nor only in the pulpit dwelt his store,
His words work'd much, but his example more;
That preach'd on worky-days his poetry,
Itself was oftentimes divinity;
Those anthems (almost second psalms) he writ,
To make us know the cross, and value it,
(Although we owe that reverence to that name,
We should not need warmth from an under-fame.)
Creates a fire in us so near 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 country his religion;
And in another would as strongly grow,
Had but his nurse and mother taught him so:
Not he the ballast on his judgment hung;
Nor did his pre-conceit do either wrong.
He labour'd to exclude whatever sin,
By time or carelessness had enter'd in;
Winnow'd the chaff from wheat, but yet was loath
A too hot zeal should force him, burn them both;
Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall,
Which, to save blotting, often would blot all;
Nor did those barbarous opinions own,
To think the organs sin, and faction none.
Nor was there expectation to gain grace
From forth his sermons only, but his face;
So primitive a look, such gravity
With humbleness, and both with piety.
So mild was Moses' count'nance, when he pray'd
For them, whose satanism his power gainsay'd;
And such his gravity, when all God's band
Receiv'd his word (through him) at secoud hand;
Which, join'd, did flames of more devotion move,
Than ever Argive Helen's could of love.
Now, to conclude, I must my reason bring,
Wherefore I call'd him in his title king;
That kingdom, the philosophers believ'd
To excell Alexander's, nor were griev'd
By fear of loss (that being such a prey
No stronger than one's self can force away)
The kingdom of one's self, this he enjoy'd,
And his authority so well employ'd,
That never any could before become
So great a monarch in so small a room.
He conquer'd rebel passions, rul'd them so,
As under-spheres by the first mover go;
Banish'd so far 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.
BY MR. MAYNE OF CHRIST-CHURCH IN OXFORD.
WHO shall presume to mourn thee, Donne, unless
He could his tears in thy expressions dress,
And teach his grief that reverence of thy hearse,
To weep lines learned, as thy anniverse;
A poem of that worth, whose every tear
Deserves the title of a several year?
Indeed so far above its reader good,
That we are thought wits, when 't is understood.
There that bless'd maid to die who now should
After thy sorrow, 't were her loss to live; [grieve!
And her fair virtues in another's line
Would faintly dawn, which are made saints in thine.
Hadst thou been shallower, and not writ so high,
Or left some new way for our pen or eye
To shed a funeral tear, perchance thy tomb
Had not been speechless, or our Muses dumb;
But now we dare not write, but must conceal
Thy epitaph, lest we be thought to steal.
For who hath read thee, and discerns thy worth,
That will not say, thy careless hours brought forth
Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play
Was happier than 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, turns our brain;
Our rack and paleness is thy weakest strain:
And when we most come near thee, 't is our bliss
To imitate thee, where thou dost amiss.
Here light your Muse, you, that do only think,
And write, and are just poets, as you drink;
In whose weak fancies wit doth ebb and flow,
Just as your reckonings rise, that we may know
In your whole carriage of your work, that here
This flash you wrote in wine, and that in beer:
This is to tap your Muse, which, running long,
Writes flat, and takes our ear not half so strong;
Poor suburb wits, who, if you want your cup,
Or if a lord recover, are blown up.
Could you but reach this height, you should not
To make each meal a project, ere you feed;
Nor walk in relic's clothes, so old and bare,
As if left off to you from Ennius were ;
Nor should your love in verse call mistress those,
Who are mine hostess, or your whores, in prose.
From this Muse learn to court, whose power could
A cloister'd coldness, or a vestal love; [move
And would convey such errands to their ear,
That ladies knew no odds to grant and hear.
But I do wrong thee, Donne, and this low praise
Is written only for thy younger days.
I am not grown up for thy riper parts,
Then should I praise thee through the tongues and
And have that deep divinity to know,
What mysteries did from thy preaching flow;
Who with thy words could charm thy audience,
That at thy sermons ear was all our sense.
Yet I have seen thee in the pulpit stand,
The sea-nymphs, that the watry caverns keep,
Have sent their pearls and rubies from the deep,
To deck thy love; and plac'd by thee they drew
More lustre to them, than where first they grew.
Ali minerals (that Earth's full womb doth hold
Promiscuously) thou could'st convert to gold;
And with thy flaming raptures so refine,
That it was much more pure than in the mine.
The lights, that gild the night, if thou didst say,
They look like eyes, those did out-shine the day;
For there would be more virtue in such spells,
Whatever was of worth in this great frame,
That art could comprehend, or wit could name,
Is was thy theme for beauty; thou didst see
Woman was this fair world's epitome.
Thy nimble Satires too, and every strain,
(With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain,
Will lose the glory of their own clear bays,
If they admit of any other's praise.
But thy diviner poems (whose clear fire
Purges all dross away) shall by a choir
Where we might take notes from thy look and hand; Than in meridians or cross parallels.
And from thy speaking action bear away
More sermon, than 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 we might see
An errour vanquish'd by delivery :
Not like our sons of zeal, who, to reform
Their hearers, fiercely at the pulpit storm,
And beat the cushion into worse estate,
Than if they did conclude it reprobate ;
Who can out-pray the glass, then lay about,
Till all predestination be run out;
And from the point such tedious uses draw,
Their repetitions would make gospel law.
No, in such temper would thy sermons flow,
So well did doctrine and thy language show;
And had that holy fear, as, hearing thee,
The court would mend, and a good Christian be.
And ladies, though unhandsome, out of grace,
Would hear thee in their unbought looks and face.
More I could write, but let this crown thine urn;
We cannot hope the like, till thou return.
MR. J. DONNE AND HIS POEMS.
WHO dares say thou art dead, when he doth see
(Unburied yet) this living part of thee;
This part, that to thy being gives fresh flame,
And, though thou 'rt Donne, yet will preserve thy
`name?
Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimson hue,
And whey-like ran at last in a pale blue)
May show thee, morta!, a dead palsy may
Seize on 't, and quickly turn it into clay;
Which, like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd:
But this great spirit thou hast left behind,
This soul of verse in its first pure estate
Shall live, for all the world to imitate;
But not come near: for in thy fancy's flight
Thou dost not stoop unto the vulgar sight,
But hovering highly in the air 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
'F' adorn Earth's face, thou sweetly didst contrive
To beauty's elements, and thence derive
Unspotted lily's white; which thou didst set
Hand in hand with the vein-like violet,
Making them soft and warm, and by thy power
Could'st give both life and sense unto a flower.
The cherries, thou hast made to speak, will be
Sweeter unto the taste than from the tree;
And (spite of winter storms) amidst the snow
Thou oft hast made the blushing rose to grow.
Of cherubims with heavenly notes be set
(Where flesh and blood could ne'er attain to yet)
There purest spirits sing such sacred lays,
In panegyric hallelujas.
THIS decent urn a sad inscription wears,
Of Donne's departure from us to the spheres ;
And the dumb stone with silence seems to tell
The changes of this life, wherein is well
Express'd a cause to make all joy to cease,
And never let our sorrows more take ease:
For now it is impossible to find
One fraught with virtues to enrich a mind.
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 rate parts? Or didst thou throw thy dart
With envious hand at some plebeian heart;
And he with pious virtue stept between
To save that stroke, and so was kill'd unseen
By thee? O't was his goodness' so to do,
Which human kinduess never reach'd unto.
Thus the hard laws of death were satisfi'd,
And he left us like orphan friends and dy'd.
Now from the pulpit to the people's ears
Whose speech shall send repentant sighs and tears?
Or tell me, if a purer virgin die,
Who shall hereafter write her elegy?
Poets, be silent, let your numbers sleep;
For he is gone, that did all fancy keep;
Time hath no soul, but his exalted verse;
Which with amazements we may now rehearse.
DONNE dead! 't is here reported true, though I
Ne'er yet so much desir'd to hear a lie;
'T is too true, for so we find it still,
Good news are often false, but seldom ill,
But must poor fame tell us his fatal day,
And shall we know his death the common way?
Methinks some comet bright should have foretold
The death of such a man; for though of old
'T is held, that comets princes' deaths 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 sign, for we have seep
A dearth, the like to which hath never been
Treading on harvest heels; which doth presage
The dearth of wit and learning, which this age
Shall find, now he is gone; for though there be
Much grain in show, none brought it forth as he.
Or men are misers, or, if true want raises
The dearth, then more that dearth Donne's plenty praises.
Of learning, languages, of eloquence,
And poesy, (past ravishing of sense)
He had a magazine, wherein such store
Was laid up, as might hundreds serve of poor.
But he is gone! O how will his desire
Torture all those, that warm'd them by his fire?
Methinks I see him in the pulpit standing,
Nor ears or eyes, but all men's hearts commanding,
Where we, that heard him, to ourselves did feign,
Golden Chrysostome was yet alive again;
And never were we wearied, till we saw
His hour (and but an hour) to end did draw.
How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use,
With helps to boot, for men to bear th' abuse
Of their tir'd patience, and endure th' expense
Of time, O spent in heark'ning to nonsense;
With marks also enough, whereby to know,
The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so!
'T is true, they quitted him to their poor pow'r,
They humm'd against him; and with face most sow'r
Call'd him a strong-lin'd man, a macaroon,
And no way fit to speak to clouted shoon.
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 less understood.
But we may say, when we compare the stuff
Both wrought, he was a candle, they the snuff.
Well, wisdom's of her children justifi'd,
Let therefore these poor fellows stand aside;
Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly,
Would I his book should save him; rather slily
I should advise his clergy not to pray;
Though of the learned'st sort, methinks 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, than th' other's ignorance.
It was his fate, I know 't, to be envy'd
As much by clerks, as laymen 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, lest some should say that I
Am stray'd to satire, meaning elegy.
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 not to fear, nor flatter, e'er were bred;
These would I bring, though called from the dead:
Southampton, Hamilton, Pembroke, Dorset's earls,
Huntington, Bedford's countesses (the pearls
Once of each sex.) 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 do I? A diminution 't is
To speak 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 speak to:) When I see 't, I'll say,
My eye-sight betters, as my years decay.
Mean time a quarrel I shall ever have
Against these doughty keepers from the grave,
Who use, it seems, their old authority,
"When verses men immortal make," they cry:
Which had it been a recipe true try'd,
Probatum esset, Donne had never dy'd.
For me, if e'er I had least spark at all
Of that, which they poetic fire do call,
Here I confess it fetched from his hearth;
Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.
This only a poor flash, a lightning is
Before my Muse's death, as after his.
Farewell (fair soul) and deign receive from me
This type of that devotion I owe thee,
From whom (while living) as by voice and pen
I learned more, than from a thousand men ;
So by thy death am of one doubt releas'd,
And now believe that miracles are ceas'd.
HERE lies dean Donne: enough; those words alone
Show him as fully, as if all the stone,
His church of Paul's contains, were through inscrib'd;
Or all the walkers there, to speak him, brib'd.
None can mistake him, for one such as he,
Donne, dean, or man, more none shall ever see.
Not man? No, though unto a Sun each eye
Were turn'd, the whole Earth so to over-spy.
A bold brave word; yet such brave spirits as knew
His spirit, will say, it is less bold than true,
LUCY COUNTESS OF BEDFORD,
WITH MR. DONNE'S SATIRES.
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are
Life of the Muse's day, their morning star,
If works (not th' author's) their own grace should
look,
Whose poems would not wish to be your book?
But these, desir'd by you, the maker's ends
Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare
Yet satires, since the most of mankind be
Their unavoided subject, fewest see:
For none e'er took that pleasure in siu's sense;
But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence.
They then, that living where the matter 's bred,
Dare for these poems yet both ask and read,
And like them too, must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you,
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are
The Muse's evening, as their morning star.
WE Hо shall doubt, Donne, where I a poet be, When I dare send my epigrams to thee?
That so alone canst judge, so alone make:
And in thy censures evenly dost take
As free simplicity to disavow,
As thou hast best authority t' allow.
Read all I send: and, if I find but one
Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone,
My title's seal'd. Those, that for claps do write,
Let puny's, porter's, player's praise delight,
And, till they burst, their backs like asses load:
A man should seek great glory, and not broad.
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