Donne

by John Donne

  But keepe the song still in their memory.

  Such an opinion (in due measure) made

  Me this great Office boldly to invade.

  Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre

  Me, from thus trying to emprison her.

  Which when I saw that a strict grave could do,

  I saw not why verse might not doe so too.

  Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keepes soules,

  The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enroules.

  HOLY SONNETS

  HOLY SONNETS

  [Divine Meditations]

  Thou hast made me, And shall thy worke decay?

  Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,

  I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,

  And all my pleasures are like yesterday,

  I dare not move my dimme eyes any way,

  Despaire behind, and death before doth cast

  Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste

  By sinne in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh;

  Onely thou art above, and when towards thee

  By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe;

  But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,

  That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine,

  Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,

  And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

  I am a little world made cunningly

  Of Elements, and an Angelike spright,

  But black sinne hath betraid to endless night

  My worlds both parts, and (oh) both parts must die.

  You which beyond that heaven which was most high

  Have found new sphears, and of new lands can write,

  Powre new seas in mine eyes, that so I might

  Drowne my world with my weeping earnestly,

  Or wash it if it must be drown’d no more:

  But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire

  Of lust and envie have burnt it heretofore,

  And made it fouler; Let their flames retire,

  And burne me ô Lord, with a fiery zeale

  Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heale.

  ANNUNCIATION

  Salvation to all that will is nigh,

  That All, which alwayes is All every where,

  Which cannot sinne, and yet all sinnes must beare,

  Which cannot die, yet cannot chuse but die,

  Loe, faithfull Virgin, yeelds himselfe to lye

  In prison, in thy wombe; and though he there

  Can take no sinne, nor thou give, yet he’will weare

  Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may trie.

  Ere by the spheares time was created, thou

  Wast in his minde, who is thy Sonne, and Brother,

  Whom thou conceiv’st, conceiv’d; yea thou art now

  Thy Makers maker, and thy Fathers mother,

  Thou’hast light in darke; and shutst in little roome,

  Immensity cloysterd in thy deare wombe.

  NATIVITIE

  Immensitie cloysterd in thy deare wombe,

  Now leaves his welbelov’d imprisonment,

  There he hath made himselfe to his intent

  Weake enough, now into our world to come;

  But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th’Inne no roome?

  Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient,

  Starres, and wisemen will travell to prevent

  Th’effect of Herods jealous generall doome;

  Seest thou, my Soule, with thy faiths eyes, how he

  Which fils all place, yet none holds him, doth lye?

  Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high,

  That would have need to be pittied by thee?

  Kisse him, and with him into Egypt goe,

  With his kinde mother, who partakes thy woe.

  O might those sighes and teares returne againe

  Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,

  That I might in this holy discontent

  Mourne with some fruit, as I have mourn’d in vaine;

  In mine Idolatry what showres of raine

  Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?

  That sufferance was my sinne I now repent,

  ’Cause I did suffer I must suffer paine.

  Th’hydroptique drunkard, and night-scouting thiefe,

  The itchy Lecher, and selfe tickling proud

  Have the remembrance of past joyes, for reliefe

  Of comming ills. To (poore) me is allow’d

  No ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath beene

  Th’effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.

  This is my playes last scene, here heavens appoint

  My pilgrimages last mile; and my race

  Idly, yet quickly runne, hath this last pace,

  My spans last inch, my minutes latest point,

  And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoynt

  My body, and soule, and I shall sleepe a space,

  But my’ever-waking part shall see that face,

  Whose feare already shakes my every joynt:

  Then, as my soule, to’heaven her first seate, takes flight,

  And earth borne body, in the earth shall dwell,

  So, fall my sinnes, that all may have their right,

  To where they’are bred, and would presse me, to hell.

  Impute me righteous, thus purg’d of evill,

  For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devill.

  At the round earths imagin’d corners, blow

  Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise

  From death, you numberlesse infinities

  Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe,

  All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,

  All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,

  Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,

  Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe,

  But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,

  For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,

  ’Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,

  When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,

  Teach mee how to repent; for that’s as good

  As if thou’hadst seal’d my pardon, with thy blood.

  Why are wee by all creatures waited on?

  Why doe the prodigall elements supply

  Life and food to mee, being more pure then I,

  Simple, and further from corruption?

  Why brook’st thou, ignorant horse, subjection?

  Why dost thou bull, and bore so seelily

  Dissemble weaknesse, and by’one mans stroke die,

  Whose whole kinde, you might swallow and feed upon?

  Weaker I am, woe is mee, and worse then you,

  You have not sinn’d, nor need be timorous,

  But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us

  Created nature doth these things subdue,

  But their Creator, whom sin, nor nature tyed,

  For us, his Creatures, and his foes, hath dyed.

  What if this present were the worlds last night?

  Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell,

  The picture of Christ crucified, and tell

  Whether his countenance can thee affright,

  Teares in his eyes quench the amasing light,

  Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc’d head fell

  And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,

  Which pray’d forgivenesse for his foes fierce spight?

  No, no; but as in my idolatrie

  I said to all my profane mistresses,

  Beauty, of pitty, foulnesse onely is

  A signe of rigour: so I say to thee,

  To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign’d,

  This beauteous forme assumes a pitious minde.

  Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you

  As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and se
eke to mend;

  That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee,’and bend

  Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

  I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,

  Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,

  Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,

  But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue,

  Yet dearely’I love you,’and would be lov’d faine,

  But am betroth’d unto your enemie,

  Divorce mee,’untie, or breake that knot againe,

  Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I

  Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free,

  Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

  Since she whom I lov’d hath payd her last debt

  To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,

  And her Soule early into heaven ravished,

  Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett.

  Here the admyring her my mind did whett

  To seeke thee God; so streames do shew their head;

  But thou I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,

  A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett.

  But why should I begg more Love, when as thou

  Dost wooe my soule for hers; offring all thine:

  And dost not only feare least I allow

  My Love to Saints and Angels things divine,

  But in thy tender jealosy dost doubt

  Least the World, Fleshe, yea Devill putt thee out.

  Show me deare Christ, thy Spouse, so bright and clear.

  What! is it she, which on the other shore

  Goes richly painted? or which rob’d and tore

  Laments and mournes in Germany and here?

  Sleepes she a thousand, then peepes up one yeare?

  Is she selfe truth and errs? now new, now outwore?

  Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore

  On one, on seaven, or on no hill appeare?

  Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights

  First travaile we to seeke and then make Love?

  Betray kind husband thy spouse to our sights,

  And let myne amorous soule court thy mild Dove,

  Who is most trew, and pleasing to thee, then

  When she’is embrac’d and open to most men.

  Death be not proud, though some have called thee

  Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou are not soe,

  For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

  Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee;

  From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

  Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

  And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

  Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

  Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

  And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

  And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

  And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?

  One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

  And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.

  DIVINE POEMS

  RESURRECTION, IMPERFECT

  Sleep sleep old Sun, thou canst not have repast

  As yet, the wound thou took’st on friday last;

  Sleepe then, and rest; The world may beare thy stay,

  A better Sun rose before thee to day,

  Who, not content to’enlighten all that dwell

  On the earths face, as thou, enlightned hell,

  And made the darke fires languish in that vale,

  As, at thy presence here, our fires grow pale.

  Whose body having walk’d on earth, and now

  Hasting to Heaven, would, that he might allow

  Himselfe unto all stations, and fill all,

  For these three daies become a minerall;

  Hee was all gold when he lay downe, but rose

  All tincture, and doth not alone dispose

  Leaden and iron wills to good, but is

  Of power to make even sinfull flesh like his.

  Had one of those, whose credulous pietie

  Thought, that a Soule one might discerne and see

  Goe from a body,’at this sepulcher been,

  And, issuing from the sheet, this body seen,

  He would have justly thought this body a soule,

  If, not of any man, yet of the whole.

  Desunt cætera.

  GOODFRIDAY, 1613. RIDING WESTWARD

  Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,

  The intelligence that moves, devotion is,

  And as the other Spheares, by being growne

  Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,

  And being by others hurried every day,

  Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:

  Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit

  For their first mover, and are whirld by it.

  Hence is’t, that I am carryed towards the West

  This day, when my Soules forme bends towards the East.

  There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,

  And by that setting endlesse day beget;

  But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,

  Sinne had eternally benighted all.

  Yet dare I’almost be glad, I do not see

  That spectacle of too much weight for mee.

  Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;

  What a death were it then to see God dye?

  It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,

  It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.

  Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,

  And tune all spheares at once pierc’d with those holes?

  Could I behold that endlesse height which is

  Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,

  Humbled below us? or that blood which is

  The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,

  Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne

  By God, for his apparell, rag’d, and torne?

  If on these things I durst not looke, durst I

  Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,

  Who was Gods partner here, and furnish’d thus

  Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom’d us?

  Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,

  They’are present yet unto my memory,

  For that looks towards them; and thou look’st towards mee,

  O Saviour, as thou hang’st upon the tree;

  I turne my backe to thee, but to receive

  Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.

  O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,

  Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,

  Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,

  That thou may’st know mee, and I’ll turne my face.

  A HYMNE TO CHRIST, AT THE AUTHORS LAST GOING TO GERMANY

  In what torne ship soever I embarke,

  That ship shall be my embleme of thy Arke;

  What sea soever swallow mee, that flood

  Shall be to mee an embleme of thy bloode;

  Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise

  Thy face; yet through that maske I know those eyes,

  Which, though they turne away sometimes,

  They never will despise.

  I sacrifice this Hand unto thee,

  And all whom I lov’d there, and who lov’d mee;

  When I have put our seas twixt them and mee,

  Put thou thy sea betwixt my sinnes and thee.

  As the trees sap doth seeke the root below

  In winter, in my winter now I goe,

  Where none but thee, th’Eternall root

  Of true Love I may know.

  Nor thou nor thy religion dost controule,

  The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule,

 
; But thou would’st have that love thy selfe: As thou

  Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,

  Thou lov’st not, till from loving more, thou free

  My soule: Who ever gives, takes libertie:

  O, if thou car’st not whom I love

  Alas, thou lov’st not mee.

  Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,

  On whom those fainter beames of love did fall;

  Marry those loves, which in youth scattered bee

  On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to thee.

  Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:

  To see God only, I goe out of sight:

  And to scape stormy dayes, I chuse

  An Everlasting night.

  HYMNE TO GOD MY GOD, IN MY SICKNESSE

  Since I am comming to that Holy roome,

  Where, with thy Quire of Saints for evermore,

  I shall be made thy Musique; As I come

  I tune the Instrument here at the dore,

  And what I must doe then, thinke here before.

  Whilst my Physitians by their love are growne

  Cosmographers, and I their Mapp, who lie

  Flat on this bed, that by them may be showne

  That this is my South-west discoverie

  Per fretum febris, by these streights to die,

  I joy, that in these straits, I see my West;

  For, those theire currants yeeld returne to none,

  What shall my West hurt me? As West and East

  In all flatt Maps (and I am one) are one,

  So death doth touch the Resurrection.

  Is the Pacifique Sea my home? Or are

  The Easterne riches? Is Jerusalem?

  Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltare,

  All streights, and none but streights are wayes to them,

  Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Sem.

  We thinke that Paradise and Calvarie,

  Christs Crosse, and Adams tree, stood in one place;

  Looke Lord, and finde both Adams met in me;

  As the first Adams sweat surrounds my face,

  May the last Adams blood my soule embrace.

  So, in his purple wrapp’d receive mee Lord,

  By these his thornes give me his other Crowne;

  And as to others soules I preach’d thy word,

  Be this my Text, my Sermon to mine owne,