In nimiâ ignoscas vati, qui vatibus olim-
Egregium decus, et tanto excellentior unus,
Omnibus inferior quanto est et pessimus impar
Laudibus hisce, tibi qui nunc facit ista, poëta.
Et quo nos canimus? cur hæc tibi sacra? poëtæ,
Desinite: en fati certus sibi voce canorâì
Inferias præmisit olor, cum Carolus Albâ
(Ultima volventem et cygnæâ voce loquentem)
Nuper eum, turba et magnatum audiret in Aulâ,
Tunc Rex, tunc Proceres, Clerus, tunc astitit illi 70
Aula frequens. Solâ nunc in tellure recumbit,
Vermibus esca, pio malint nisi parcere : quidni
Incipiant et amare famen? Metuêre leones
Sic olim; sacrosque artus violare Prophetæ
Bellua non ausa est, quanquam jejuna, sitimque
Optaret nimis humano satiare cruore.
At non hæc de te sperabimus; omina carpit
Prædator vermis: nec talis contigit illi
Præda diu; forsan metrico pede serpet ab inde.
Vescere, ex exhausto satia te sanguine. Jam nos 80
Adşumus; et post te cupiet quis vivere ? post te
Quis volet, aut poterit? nam post te vivere mors est.
Et tamen ingratas ignavi ducimus auras;
Sustinet et tibi lingua vale, vale dicere: parce
Non festinanti æternùm requiescre turbæ.
Ipsa satis properat, que nescit parca morari,
Nunc urgere colum, trahere atque occare videmus,
Quin rursus (Venerande) Vale, vale: ordine nos te
Quo Deus et quo dura volet Natura, sequemur.
Depositum interea lapides, servate fideles.. -Foelices! illâ quies Edis parte locari,
Quâ jacet iste, datur. Forsan lapis inde loquetur,
Parturietque viro plenus testantia luctus
Verba; et carminibus, quæ Donni suggeret illi
Spiritus, insolitos testari voce calores
Inciplet: (non sic Pyrrha jactante calebat.)
Mole sub hac tegitur, quicquid mortale relictum est
De tanto mortale viro. Qui præfuit Ædi huic,
Formosi pecoris pastor formosior ipse.
Ite igitur, dignisque illum celebrate loquelis,
Et, quæ demuntur vitæ, date tempora famæ.
Indignus tantorum meritorum pæco, virtutum
tuarum cultor religiosissimus,
ON THE DEATH OF DR. DONNE.
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 thy own.
The epitaphs thou writ'st have so bereft
Our tongue of wit, there is no fancy left
Enough to weep thee: what henceforth we see
Of art or nature must result from thee.
There may, perchance, some busy-gathering friend
Steal from thy own Works, and that, varied, lend, ia
Which thou bestow'dst on others, to thy hearse,
And so thou shalt live still in thine own verse:
He that shall venture farther may commit
A pity'd error; shew 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,
Here lies the best Divinity, all the Arts.
AN ELEGY UPON THE INCOMPARABLE
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,
It better may be term'd 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 ev'n to ecstacy
Could charm the soul, and had an influence
To teach best judgments and please dullest sense.
The court, the church, the university,
Lost Chaplain, Dean, and Doctor, all these three. 20 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?
Methinks corruption, worms, what else is foul,
Should spare the temple of so fair a soul.
I could believe they do, but that I know
What inconvenience might hereafter grow;
Succeeding ages would idolatrize,
And as his numbers so his reliques prize.
*If that philosopher, which did avow
The world to be but motes, were 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 concenter'd were, and flowing thence,
Might fill again the world's circumference.
I could believe this too, and yet my faith
Not want a precedent. 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
A pitch, of all admir'd, 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 's as his gifts, 'bove others far.
OUR Donne is dead! England should mourn, may say
We had a man where language chose to stay,
And shew her graceful pow'r. I would not praise
That and his vast wit, (which in these vain days ›.
|