by John Donne
There we leave you in that blessed dependency, to hang upon Him that hangs upon the cross, there bathe in His tears, there suck at His wounds, and lie down in peace in His grave, till he vouchsafe you a resurrection, and an ascension into that [100] kingdom which He hath prepared for you with the inestimable price of His incorruptible blood. Amen.
Appendix Memorial Verses
To the Deceased Author, upon the Promiscuous Printing of His Poems, the Looser Sort, with the Religious
By [Sir] Tho[mas] Browne
When thy loose raptures, Donne, shall meet with those
That do confine
Tuning unto the duller line,
And sing not but in sanctified prose,
How will they, with sharper eyes,
The foreskin of the fancy circumcise?
And fear, thy wantonness should now begin
Example, that hath ceased to be sin?
And that fear fans their heat, whil’st knowing eyes
[10] Will not admire
At this strange fire,
That here is mingled with thy sacrifice:
But dare read even thy wanton story,
As thy confession, not thy glory.
And will so envy both to future times,
That they would buy thy goodness, with thy crimes.
To the Memory of My Ever Desired Friend Dr Donne
By H[enry] K[ing]
To have lived eminent in a degree
Beyond our loftiest flights, that is like thee;
Or t’have had too much merit is not safe,
For such excesses find no epitaph.
At common graves we have poetic eyes
Can melt themselves in easy elegies.
Each quill can drop his tributary verse
And pin it, with the hatchments, to the hearse.
But at thine, poem or inscription
[10] (Rich soul of wit, and language) we have none.
Indeed a silence doth that tomb befit
Where is no herald left to blazon it.
Widowed invention justly doth forbear
To come abroad knowing thou art not there,
Late her great patron, whose prerogative
Maintained and clothed her so, as none alive
Must now presume to keep her at thy rate,
Though he the Indies for her dower estate.
Or else that awful fire, which once did burn
[20] In thy clear brain, now fall’n into thy urn,
Lives there to fright rude empirics from thence,
Which might profane thee by their ignorance.
Whoever writes of thee, and in a style
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 pitched fancy can devise
Will prove, at best, but hallowed injuries.
Thou, like the dying swan, didst lately sing
[30] Thy mournful dirge in audience of the king,
When pale looks and faint accents of thy breath
Presented so to life that peace of death,
That it was feared and prophesied by all
Thou thither cam’st to preach thy funeral.
O! had’st thou in an elegiac knell
Rung out unto the world thine own farewell,
And in thy high victorious numbers beat
The solemn measure of thy grieved retreat,
Thou might’st the poets’ service now have missed
[40] As well as then thou didst prevent the priest,
And never to the world beholding 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 reborrow from her bankrupt mine
That ore to bury thee, which once was thine.
Rather still leave us in thy debt, and know
(Exalted soul) more glory ’tis to owe
Unto thy hearse what we can never pay,
[50] Than with embased coin those rights defray.
Commit we then thee to thyself, nor blame
Our drooping loves, which thus to thy own fame
Leave thee executor. Since, but thine own,
No pen could do thee justice, nor bays crown
Thy vast desert, save that we nothing can
Depute, to be thy ashes’ guardian.
So jewellers no art nor metal trust
To form the diamond, but the diamond’s dust.
On the Death of Dr Donne
By Edw[ard] Hyde
I cannot blame those men that knew thee well,
Yet dare not help the world to ring thy knell
In tuneful elegies. There’s not language known
Fit for thy mention, but ’twas first thine own.
The epitaphs thou writ’st have so bereft
Our pens of wit, there’s not one fancy left
Enough to weep thee. What henceforth we see
Of art and nature must result from thee.
There may perchance some busy gathering friend
[10] Steal from thine own works, and that, varied, lend,
(Which thou bestow’st on others) to thy hearse,
And so thou shall live still in thine own verse.
He that will venture further may commit
A pitied error, show his zeal, not wit.
Fate hath done mankind wrong; virtue may aim
Reward of conscience, never can, of fame,
Since her great trumpet’s broke, could only give
Faith to the world, command it to believe.
He then must write, that would define thy parts,
[20] Here lies the best divinity, all the arts.
On Doctor Donne
By Dr C. B. of O.
He that would write an epitaph for thee,
And do it well, must first begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath lived so.
He must have wit to spare and to hurl down,
Enough to keep the gallants of the town.
He must have learning plenty: both the laws,
Civil and common, to judge any cause;
Divinity great store, above the rest;
[10] Not of the last edition but the best.
He must have language, travail, all the arts;
Judgement to use, or else he wants thy parts.
He must have friends the highest, able to do,
Such as Maecenas and Augustus too.
He must have such a sickness, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an epitaph for thee?
He must be dead first, let’it alone for me.
An Elegy upon the Incomparable Dr Donne
By Hen[ry] Valentine
All is not well when such a one as I
Dare peep abroad and write an elegy.
When smaller stars appear and give their light,
Phoebus is gone to bed. Were it not night
And the world witless now that Donne is dead,
You sooner should have broke than seen my head.
Dead, did I say? Forgive this injury
I do him and his worth’s infinity,
To say he is but dead. I dare aver,
[10] It better may be termed a massacre
Than sleep or death. See how the muses mourn
Upon their oaten reeds, and from his urn
Threaten the world with this calamity;
They shall have ballads, but no poetry.
Language lies speechless, and divinity
Lost such a trump as even to ecstasy
Could charm the soul, and had an influence
To teach best judgements, and please dullest sense.
The court, the church, the university
[20] Lost c
haplain, dean, and doctor, all these three.
It was his merit, that his funeral
Could cause a loss so great and general.
If there be any spirit can answer give
Of such as hence depart, to such as live,
Speak: Doth his body there vermiculate,
Crumble to dust, and feel the laws of fate?
Me thinks corruption, worms, what else is foul,
Should spare the temple of so fair a soul.
I could believe they do, but that I know
[30] What inconvenience might hereafter grow:
Succeeding ages would idolatrize,
And as his numbers, so his relics prize.
If that philosopher, which did avow
The world to be but motes, was living now,
He would affirm that th’atoms of his mould,
Were they in several bodies blended, would
Produce new worlds of travellers, divines,
Of linguists, poets, sith these several lines
In him concentred were, and flowing thence
[40] Might fill again the world’s circumference.
I could believe this too, and yet my faith
Not want a president. The phoenix hath
(And such was he) a power to animate
Her ashes and herself perpetuate.
But, busy soul, thou dost not well to pry
Into these secrets. Grief and jealousy,
The more they know, the further still advance,
And find no way so safe as ignorance.
Let this suffice thee, that his soul which flew
[50] A pitch of all admired, known but of few
(Save those of purer mould) is now translated
From earth to heaven, and there constellated.
For if each priest of God shine as a star,
His glory is as his gifts, ’bove others far.
An Elegy upon Dr Donne
By Iz[aak] Wa[lton]
Is Donne, great Donne, deceased? Then England say
Thou’hast lost a man where language chose to stay
And show its graceful power. I would not praise
That and his vast wit (which in these vain days
Make many proud) but as they served to unlock
That cabinet, his mind, where such a stock
Of knowledge was reposed, as all lament
(Or should) this general cause of discontent.
And I rejoice I am not so severe,
[10] But (as I write a line) to weep a tear
For his decease; such sad extremities
May make such men as I write elegies.
And wonder not, for, when a general loss
Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross,
God hath raised prophets to awaken them
From stupefaction. Witness my mild pen,
Not used to upbraid the world, though now it must,
Freely and boldly, for the cause is just.
Dull age, O, I would spare thee, but th’art worse;
[20] Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse
Of black ingratitude; if not, could’st 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 poetry, wherein
Was all philosophy? Was every sin
Charactered in his satires made so foul,
That some have feared their shapes, and kept their soul
Freer by reading verse? Did he give days
[30] Past marble monuments to those whose praise
He would perpetuate? Did he (I fear
The dull will doubt) these at his twentieth year?
But, more matured, did his full soul conceive,
And in harmonious holy numbers weave,
A crown of sacred sonnets fit to adorn
A dying martyr’s brow – or, to be worn
On that blest head of Mary Magdalen,
After she wiped Christ’s feet, but not till then?
Did he (fit for such penitents as she
[40] And he to use) leave us a litany?
Which all devout men love, and sure, it 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, waived it? Went to see
That blessed place of Christ’s nativity?
Did he return and preach him? Preach him so
[50] As none but he could do? His hearers know
(Such as were blest to hear him) this is truth.
Did he confirm thy aged? Convert thy youth?
Did he these wonders? And is this dear loss
Mourned by so few? (Few for so great a cross.)
But sure, the silent are ambitious all
To be close mourners at his funeral.
If not in common pity, they forbear
By repetitions to renew our care.
Or, knowing, grief conceived, concealed, consumes
[60] Man irreparably (as poisoned fumes
Do waste the brain), make silence a safe way
T’enlarge the soul from these walls, mud and clay,
(Materials of this body) to remain
With Donne in heaven, where no promiscuous pain
Lessens the joy we have, for, with him, all
Are satisfied with joys essential.
My thoughts dwell on this joy, and do not call
Grief back by thinking of his funeral.
Forget he loved me; waste not my sad years,
[70] (Which haste to David’s seventy) filled with fears
And sorrow for his death. Forget his parts,
Which 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. O, 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,
[80] Which can no more be, than Donne’s virtues spoke
By any but himself. For which cause, I
Write no encomium, but an elegy.
Elegy on D. D.
By Sidney Godolphin
Now, by one year, time and our frailty have
Lessened our first confusion since the grave
Closed thy dear ashes, and the tears which flow
In these, have no springs but of solid woe,
Or, they are drops, which cold amazement froze
At thy decease, and will not thaw in prose.
All streams of verse, which shall lament that day,
Do truly to the ocean tribute pay,
But they have lost their saltness, which the eye,
[10] In recompense of wit, strives to supply.
Passions’ excess for thee we need not fear,
Since first by thee our passions hallowed were.
Thou mad’st our sorrows, which before had been
Only for the success, sorrows for sin.
We owe thee all those tears, now thou art dead,
Which we shed not, which for ourselves we shed.
Nor didst thou only consecrate our tears,
Give a religious tincture to our fears,
But even our joys had learned an innocence.
[20] Thou didst from gladness separate offence.
All minds at once sucked grace from thee, as where
(The curse revoked) the nations had one ear.
Pious dissector: they one hour did treat
The thousand mazes of the heart’s deceit.
Thou didst pursue our loved and subtle sin,
Through all the foldings we had wrapped it in,
And in thine own large mind finding the way
By which ourselves we from ourselves convey,
Didst in us, narrow models, know the same
[30] Angles, though darker, in our meaner frame.
How short of praise is this? My muse, alas,
Climbs weakly to that truth which none can pass:
He that writes best, may only hope to leave
A character of all he could conceive.
But none of thee, and with me must confess,
That fancy finds some check from an excess
