Make many proud) but as they serv'd t' unlock. That cabinet his mind, where such a stock; Of knowledge was repos'd, as all lament (Or should) this gen'ral cause of discontent. And I rejoice I am not so severe.. 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 gen'ral loss Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross, God hath rais'd prophets to awaken them. From stupefaction; witness my mild pen, Not us'd t' upbraid the world, tho' now it must Freely and boldly, for the cause is just.
Dull age! oh! I would spare thee, but th'art worse, Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse.
Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst 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 Character'd in his Satires, made so foul,
That some have fear'd their shapes, and kept their soul Safer by reading verse? Did he give days,
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 matur'd, did his full soul conceive, And in harmonious holy numbers weave A Crown* of Sacred Sonnets, fit t' adorn A dying martyr's brow, or to be worn On that blest head of Mary Magdalen, After she wip'd Christ's feet, but not till then? Did he (fit for such penitents as she 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, for 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 wav'd it) went to see The blessed place of Christ's nativity?
Did he return and preach him? preach him, so, As since St. Paul none did, none could? those know, Such as were blest to hear him, this is truth. Did he confirm th' aged, convert the youth? Did he these wonders? and is this dear loss Mourn'd 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 conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumes Man irreparably, (as poison'd 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 satisfy'd with joys essential.
Dwell on this joy, my thoughts: oh! do not call
Grief back by thinking of his funeral.
Forget he lov'd me; waste not my sad years,
(Which haste to David's seventy) fill'd with fears 70 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. Oh! my frailty! let My flesh be no more heard; it will obtrude, This Lethargy; so should my gratitude, My flows of gratitude should so be broke, Which can no more be than Donne's virtues spoke So By any but himself; for which cause I Write no encomium, but this elegy,
Which as a free-will off'ring I here give
Fame and the world; and, parting with it, grieve I want abilities fit to set forth
A monument great as Donne's matchless worth, 86
Now, by one year, time and our frailty have. Lessen'd our first confusion, since the grave. Clos'd 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, In recompence of wit, strives to reply. Passion's excess for thee we need not fear, Since first by thee our passions hallow'd 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 ev'n our joys had learn'd an innocence;
Thou didst from gladness separate offence. All minds at once suck'd grace from thee, as where (The curse revok'd) the nations had one ear.
Pious dissector, they one hour did treat The thousand mazes of the heart's deceit: Thou didst pursue our lov'd and subtile sin Thro' all the foldings we have wrapt 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 Angels, tho' 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 can 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 Of merit most, of nothing it hath spun,
And truth, as reason's task and theme, doth shun: She makes a fairer flight in emptiness, Than when a bodied truth doth her oppress. Reason again denies her scales, because Her's are but scales, she judges by the laws Of weak comparison; thy virtue'slights Her feeble beam and her unequal weights, What prodigy of wit and piety
Hath she else known by which to measure thee? Great soul! we can no more the worthiness Of what you were than what you are express.
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