AN EPITAPH, WRITTEN BY DOCTOR CORBET,* LATE BISHOP OF OXFORD, ON HIS FRIEND DR. DONNE. He that would write an Epitaph for thee, He must have Language, Travel, all the Arts, He must have such a sickness, such a death, Should first be dead;-let it alone for me. * Dr. Richard Corbet, an eminent Divine and Poet, born at Ewell in Surrey, and educated at Westminster, whence he removed to Christ Church College, Oxford, in 1597-98. Upon entering into Holy Orders, he was made Chaplain in Ordinary to King James I.; and in July 1630, he was consecrated Bishop of Oxford. In April 1632, he was translated to the See of Norwich, and he died July 28th, 1635. He was, according to Aubrey, a very convivial man, and in his younger years, one of the most celebrated wits of the University, and his volume of Poems is both a rare and meritorious production. TO THE MEMORY OF MY EVER-DESIRED FRIEND DOCTOR DONNE. AN ELEGY BY H. KING, LATE BISHOP OF CHICHESTER. To have liv'd eminent, in a degree Beyond our loftiest thoughts, that is, like Thee; At common graves we have poetic eyes Rich soul of wit and language—we have none. Where is no herald left to blazon it. To come abroad, knowing thou art not there: Thy precious dust, and wakes a learned spirit, Thou like the dying swan didst lately sing, That it was fear'd and prophesy'd by all 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, Thy memory what we can never pay, Commit we then Thee to Thyself, nor blame So Jewellers no art or metal trust, To form the diamond, but the diamond's dust. H. K. AN ELEGY ON DR. DONNE, BY IZAAC WALTON. OUR Donne is dead! and we may sighing say, And I rejoice I am not so severe, But as I write a line, to weep a tear For his decease; such sad extremities Can make such men as I write elegies. And wonder not; for when so great a loss Dull age! Oh, I would spare thee, but thou'rt worse: Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse Of black ingratitude: if not, couldst thou Part with this matchless man, and make no vow Some sad remembrance to his dying day? Did his youth scatter Poetry, wherein Lay Love's Philosophy? was every sin Pictur'd in his sharp Satires, made so foul, That some have fear'd sin's 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 But, more matur'd, did his rich soul conceive Which all devout men love, and doubtless shall, Did he return and preach him? preach him so, * "La Corona," a poem, written by Dr. Donne, and consisting of seven holy sonnets, the first line of each sonnet beginning with the last line of the preceding one, the poem beginning and ending with the same line-namely 66 Deigne at my hands this crown of prayer and praise." The subjects are- -Annunciation-Nativitie-Temple-crucifying-Resurrection -Ascension. † A poem so called, written by Dr. Donne, who, in a letter to his friend, Sir Henry Goodyere, gives this account of it. "Since my imprisonment in my bed I have made a meditation in verse, which I call a Litany. The word, you know, imports no other than supplication; but all churches have one form of supplication by that name. Amongst ancient annals, I mean some 800 years, I have met two Litanies in Latin verse, which gave me not the reason of my meditations; for in good faith I thought not upon them, but they give me a defence, if any man to a Layman and a Private impute it as a fault to take such divine and publique names to his own little thoughts." (Letters, &c. p. 32.) |