But souls where nothing dwells but love, (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove, When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove. And then we shall be thoro'ly blest; But now, no more than all the rest. Here upon earth we are kings, and none but we Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Unto threescore: this is the second of our reign." "Love's Growth. "I scarce believe my love to be so pure As I had thought it was, Because it doth endure Vicissitude and season, as the grass. Methinks I lied all winter when I swore My love was infinite, if Spring can make it more. But if this med'cine, Love, which cures all sorrow But as all else being elemented too, Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. And yet no greater, but more eminent, As in the firmament Stars by the sun are not enlarg'd, but shown. New taxes, and remit them not in peace) No winter shall abate this spring's encrease." The reader will not fail to observe the occasional obscurities which arise out of the extreme condensation of expression in the foregoing pieces, and in most of those which follow. These passages may always be unravelled by a little attention, and they seldom fail to repay the trouble bestowed upon them. But they must be regarded as unequivocal faults nevertheless. The following is, doubtless, "high-fantastical," in the last degree; but it is fine notwithstanding, and an evidence of something more than mere ingenuity. "Let me pour forth My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here; Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more: On a round ball A workman (that hath copies by) can lay An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia, And quickly make that, which was nothing, all: Which thee doth wear, A globe, yea world, by that impression grow; This world, by waters sent from thee-my heaven dissolved so. O, more than moon, Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere! Weep me not dead in thine arms, but forbear Example find To do me more harm than it purposeth; Since thou and I sigh one-another's breath, Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death." The feelings which dictated such poetry as this, (for it is poetry, and nothing but real feelings could dictate it,) must have pierced deeper than the surface of both the heart and the imagination. In fact, they wanted nothing but to have been excited under more favourable circumstances, to have made them well-springs of the richest poetry uttering itself in the rarest words. For clearness of expression, melody of versification, and a certain wayward simplicity of thought peculiarly appropriate to such compositions as these, the most successful of our modern lyrists might envy the following trifle : Perhaps the two short pieces which follow, include all the characteristics of Donne's style--beauties as well as faults. "A Lecture. "Stand still, and I will read to thee Along with us, which we ourselves produced. But, now the sun is just above our head, And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd. Disguises did, and shadows, flow From us, and from our cares: now 'tis not so. That love hath not attain'd the highest degree We shall new shadows make the other way. Others, these, which come behind, Still work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes. If our loves faint, and westwardly decline, To me thou, falsly, thine, And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. But these grow larger all the day : But oh, love's day is short, if love decay. "The Expiration. So, so,-break off this last lamenting kiss, Go! and if that word have not quite killed thee, Except it be too late to kill me so—. Being double dead,-going, and bidding go!" The following piece, entitled "The Funeral," is fantastical and far-fetched to be sure; but it is very fine nevertheless. The comparison of the nerves and the braid of hair, and anticipating similar effects from each, could never have entered the thoughts of any one but Donne; still less could any one have made it tell as he has done. The piece is altogether an admirable and most interesting example of his style. "Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm, Nor question much, That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm; For 'tis my outward soul; Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone, Will leave this to controul And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For, if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part, Can tie those parts, and make me one, of all, Those hairs, which upward grow, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do it; except she meant that I By this should know my pain; As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemn'd to die. As a specimen of Donne's infinite fullness of meaning, take a little poem, called "The Will;" almost every line of which would furnish matter for a whole treatise in modern times. "Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, To women, or the sea, my tears; Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live; |