John Donne - Delphi Poets Series
Page 14
17. And we as yet, for all these miseries
Desiring our vain help, consume our eyes.
And such a nation as cannot save,
We in desire and speculation have;
18. They hunt our steps, that in the streets we fear
To go; our end is now approached near.
Our days accomplish’d are; this the last day;
Eagles of heav’n are not so swift as they
19. Which follow us; o’er mountain tops they fly
At us, and for us in the desert lie.
20. Th’ Anointed Lord, breath of our nostrils, He
Of whom we said, under His shadow we
Shall with more ease under the heathen dwell,
Into the pit which these men digged, fell.
21. Rejoice, O Edom’s daughter, joyful be
Thou that inhabit’st Uz, for unto thee
This cup shall pass, and thou with drunkenness
Shalt fill thyself, and show thy nakedness.
22. Then thy sins, O Sion, shall be spent,
The Lord will not leave thee in banishment.
Thy sins, O Edom’s daughter, He will see,
And for them, pay thee with captivity.
CHAP. V.
1. Remember, O Lord, what is fall’n on us;
See, and mark how we are reproached thus;
2. For unto strangers our possession
Is turn’d, our houses unto aliens gone.
3. Our mothers are become as widows; we
As orphans all, and without fathers be;
4. Waters which are our own, we drink and pay;
And upon our own wood a price they lay.
5. Our persecutors on our necks do sit;
They make us travail, and not intermit;
6. We stretch our hands unto th’ Egyptians
To get us bread; and to th’ Assyrians.
7. Our fathers did these sins, and are no more;
But we do bear the sins they did before.
8. They are but servants, which do rule us thus,
Yet from their hands none would deliver us.
9. With danger of our life our bread we gat;
For in the wilderness the sword did wait.
10. The tempests of this famine we lived in,
Black as an oven colour’d had our skin.
11. In Judah’s cities they the maids abused
By force, and so women in Sion used.
12. The princes with their hands they hung; no grace
Nor honour gave they to the elder’s face.
13. Unto the mill our young men carried are,
And children fell under the wood they bare.
14. Elders the gates, youth did their songs forbear;
Gone was our joy; our dancings, mournings were.
15. Now is the crown fall’n from our head; and woe
Be unto us, because we’ve sinnèd so.
16. For this our hearts do languish, and for this
Over our eyes a cloudy dimness is.
17. Because Mount Sion desolate doth lie,
And foxes there do go at liberty;
18. But Thou, O Lord, art ever, and Thy throne
From generation to generation.
19. Why shouldst Thou forget us eternally?
Or leave us thus long in this misery?
20. Restore us, Lord, to thee, that so we may
Return, and as of old, renew our day.
21. For oughtest Thou, O Lord, despise us thus,
And to be utterly enraged at us?
HYMN TO GOD, MY GOD, IN MY SICKNESS.
SINCE I am coming to that Holy room,
Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made Thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before;
Whilst my physicians by their love are grown
Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown
That this is my south-west discovery,
Per fretum febris, by these straits to die;
I joy, that in these straits I see my west;
For, though those currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me? As west and east
In all flat maps — and I am one — are one,
So death doth touch the resurrection.
Is the Pacific sea my home? Or are
The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?
Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar?
All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them
Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.
We think that Paradise and Calvary,
Christ’s cross and Adam’s tree, stood in one place;
Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;
As the first Adam’s sweat surrounds my face,
May the last Adam’s blood my soul embrace.
So, in His purple wrapp’d, receive me, Lord;
By these His thorns, give me His other crown;
And as to others’ souls I preach’d Thy word,
Be this my text, my sermon to mine own,
“Therefore that He may raise, the Lord throws down.”
A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.
I.
WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.
II.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.
III.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And having done that, Thou hast done;
I fear no more.
TO GEORGE HERBERT, SENT HIM WITH ONE OF MY SEALS OF THE ANCHOR AND CHRIST.
QUI prius assuetus serpentum fasce tabellas
Signare, hæc nostræ symbola parva domus,
Adscitus domui Domini, patrioque relicto
Stemmate, nanciscor stemmata jure nova.
Hinc mihi Crux primo quæ fronti impressa lavacro,
Finibus extensis, anchora facta patet.
Anchoræ in effigiem Crux tandem desinit ipsam,
Anchora fit tandem Crux tolerata diu.
Hoc tamen ut fiat, Christo vegetatur ab ipso
Crux, et ab affixo est Anchora facta Jesu.
Nec natalitiis penitus serpentibus orbor,
Non ita dat Deus, ut auferat ante data.
Qua sapiens, dos est, qua terram lambit et ambit,
Pestis, at in nostra sit medicina Cruce
Serpens fixa Cruci si sit natura, Crucique
A fixo nobis gratia tota fluat.
Omnia cum Crux sint, Crux Anchora fixa, sigillum
Non tam dicendum hoc, quam catechismus erit.
Mitto, nec exigua, exigua sub imagine, dona,
Pignora amicitiæ, et munera vota preces.
Plura tibi accumulet sanctus cognominis, Ille
Regia qui flavo dona sigillat equo.
A SHEAF OF SNAKES USED HERETOFORE TO BE MY SEAL, THE CREST OF OUR POOR FAMILY.
ADOPTED in God’s family and so
Our old coat lost, unto new arms I go.
The Cross — my seal at baptism — spread below
Does, by that form, into an Anchor grow.
Crosses grow Anchors; bear, as thou shouldest do
Thy Cross, and that Cross grows
an Anchor too.
But He that makes our Crosses Anchors thus,
Is Christ, who there is crucified for us.
Yet may I, with this, my first serpents hold;
God gives new blessings, and yet leaves the old.
The serpent may, as wise, my pattern be;
My poison, as he feeds on dust, that’s me.
And, as he rounds the earth to murder sure,
My death he is, but on the Cross, my cure.
Crucify nature then, and then implore
All grace from Him, crucified there before;
Then all is Cross, and that Cross Anchor grown;
This seal’s a catechism, not a seal alone.
Under that little seal great gifts I send,
Works, and prayers, pawns, and fruits of a friend.
And may that saint which rides in our great seal,
To you who bear his name,* great bounties deal!
TRANSLATED OUT OF GAZÆUS, “VOTA AMICO FACTA,” FOL. 160.
GOD grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine,
Thou who dost, best friend, in best things outshine;
May thy soul, ever cheerful, ne’er know cares,
Nor thy life, ever lively, know grey hairs,
Nor thy hand, ever open, know base holds,
Nor thy purse, ever plump, know pleats, or folds,
Nor thy tongue, ever true, know a false thing,
Nor thy words, ever mild, know quarrelling,
Nor thy works, ever equal, know disguise,
Nor thy fame, ever pure, know contumelies,
Nor thy prayers know low objects, still divine;
God grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine.
SATIRES
Donne’s satires deal with common Elizabethan topics, including political corruption, the rivalry of fellow poets and lampooning pretentious courtiers. His images of sickness, manure and jealousy evoke a satiric view of a world populated by all the ‘knaves of England’. His third satire, however, deals with the problem of true religion, a matter of great importance to the poet. He argues that it was better to examine carefully one’s religious convictions than to follow blindly any established tradition.
CONTENTS
AWAY THOU FONDLING MOTLEY HUMORIST
SIR; THOUGH (I THANKE GOD FOR IT) I DO HATE
KIND PITY CHOKES MY SPLEEN; BRAVE SCORN FORBIDS
WELL; I MAY NOW RECEIVE, AND DIE; MY SINN
THOU SHALT NOT LAUGH IN THIS LEAFE, MUSE, NOR THEY
MEN WRITE THAT LOVE AND REASON DISAGREE
TO SIR NICHOLAS SMYTH
UPON MR. THOMAS CORYATS CRUDITIES
IN EUNDEM MACARONICUM
SATYRE I
AWAY THOU FONDLING MOTLEY HUMORIST
Away thou fondling motley humorist,
Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest,
Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye
In prison, and here be coffin’d, when I dye;
Here are Gods conduits, grave Divines; and here
Natures Secretary, the Philosopher;
And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tie
The sinewes of a cities mistique bodie;
Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand
Giddie fantastique Poets of each land.
Shall I leave all this constant company,
And follow headlong, wild uncertaine thee?
First sweare by thy best love in earnest
(If thou which lov’st all, canst love any best)
Thou wilt not leave mee in the middle street
Though some more spruce companion thou dost meet,
Not though a Captaine do come in thy way
Bright parcell gilt, with forty dead mens pay,
Nor though a briske perfum’d piert Courtier
Deigne with a nod, thy courtesie to answer,
Nor come a velvet Justice with a long
Great traine of blew coats, twelve, or fourteen strong,
Wilt thou grin or fawne on him, or prepare
A speech to court his beautious sonne and heire.
For better or worse take mee, or leave mee:
To take, and leave mee is adultery.
Oh monstrous, superstitious puritan,
Of refin’d manners, yet ceremoniall man,
That when thou meet’st one, with enquiring eyes
Dost search, and like a needy broker prize
The silke, and gold he weares, and to that rate
So high or low, dost raise thy formall hat:
That wilt consort none, untill thou have knowne
What lands hee hath in hope, or of his owne,
As though all thy companions should make thee
Jointures, and marry thy deare company.
Why should’st thou (that dost not onely approve,
But in ranke itchie lust, desire, and love
The nakednesse and barenesse to enjoy,
Of thy plumpe muddy whore, or prostitute boy)
Hate vertue, though shee be naked, and bare?
At birth, and death, our bodies naked are;
And till our Soules be unapparrelled
Of bodies, they from blisse are banished.
Mans first blest state was naked, when by sinne
Hee lost that, yet hee’was cloath’d but in beasts skin,
And in this course attire, which I now weare,
With God, and with the Muses I conferre.
But since thou like a contrite penitent,
Charitably warn’d of thy sinnes, dost repent
These vanities, and giddinesses, loe
I shut my chamber doore, and ‘Come, lets goe.’
But sooner may a cheape whore, that hath beene
Worne by as many severall men in sinne,
As are black feathers, or musk-colour hose,
Name her childs right true father, ‘mongst all those:
Sooner may one guesse, who shall beare away
Th’Infant of London, Heire to’an India:
And sooner may a gulling weather-Spie
By drawing forth heavens Scheame tell certainly
What fashion’d hats, or ruffles, or suits next yeare
Our subtile-witted antique youths will weare;
Then thou, when thou depart’st from mee, canst show
Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go.
But how shall I be pardon’d my offence
That thus have sinn’d against my conscience?
Now we are in the street; He first of all
Improvidently proud, creepes to the wall,
And so imprison’d, and hem’d in by mee
Sells for a little state his libertie;
Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet
Every fine silken painted foole we meet,
He them to him with amorous smiles allures,
And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch endures,
As prentises, or schoole-boyes which doe know
Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not goe.
And as fidlers stop low’st, at highest sound,
So to the most brave, stoops hee nigh’st the ground.
But to a grave man, he doth move no more
Then the wise politique horse would heretofore,
Or thou O Elephant or Ape wilt doe,
When any names the King of Spaine to you.
Now leaps he upright, joggs me,’and cryes, ‘Do’you see
Yonder well favour’d youth?’ ‘Which?’ ‘Oh, ‘tis hee
That dances so divinely.’ ‘Oh,’ said I,
‘Stand still, must you dance here for company?’
Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excell
Th’Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well)
Met us; they talk’d; I whisper’d, ‘Let us goe,
‘T may be you smell him not, truely I doe.’
He heares not mee, but, on the other side
A many-colour’d Peacock having
spide,
Leaves him and mee; I for my lost sheep stay;
He followes, overtakes, goes on the way,
Saying, ‘Him whom I last left, all repute
For his device, in hansoming a sute,
To judge of lace, pinke, panes, print, cut and plight,
Of all the Court, to have the best conceit.’
‘Our dull Comedians want him, let him goe;
But Oh, God strengthen thee, why stoop’st thou so?’
‘Why? he hath travail’d.’ ‘Long?’ ‘No, but to me’
(Which understand none,) ‘he doth seeme to be
Perfect French, and Italian.’ I reply’d,
‘So is the Poxe.’ He answer’d not, but spy’d
More men of sort, of parts, and qualities;
At last his Love he in a windowe spies,
And like light dew exhal’d, he flings from mee
Violently ravish’d to his lechery.
Many were there, he could command no more;
He quarrell’d, fought, bled; and turn’d out of dore
Directly came to mee hanging the head,
And constantly a while must keepe his bed.
SATYRE II
SIR; THOUGH (I THANKE GOD FOR IT) I DO HATE
Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this towne, yet there’s one state
In all ill things so excellently best,
That hate, towards them, breeds pitty towards the rest.
Though Poetry indeed be such a sinne
As I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in,
Though like the Pestilence and old fashion’d love,
Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove
Never, till it be sterv’d out; yet their state
Is poore, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.
One,(like a wretch, which at Barre judg’d as dead,
Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade,
And saves his life)gives ideot actors meanes
(Starving himselfe)to live by’his labor’d sceanes;
As in some Organ, Puppits dance above
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move Love by rimes; but witchcrafts charms
Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes:
Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,
Pistolets are the best Artillerie.
And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like singers at doores for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have still
That excuse for writing, and for writing ill.
But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw