John Donne - Delphi Poets Series (33 page)

Weakenesse in the want of correspondence of heauen & earth.

To colour vicious deeds with good pretence,
Or with bought colors to illude mens sense.
Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares,
Then that her influence the heau’n forbeares,
Or that the Elements doe not feele this,
The father, or the mother barren is.
The clouds conceiue not raine, or doe not powre
In the due birth-time, down the balmy showre.
Th’Ayre doth not motherly sit on the earth,
To hatch her seasons, and giue all things birth.
Spring-times were common cradles, but are toombes,
And false conceptions fill the generall wombes.
Th’ayre showes such Meteors, as none can see,
Not onely what they meane, but what they bee.
Earth such new wormes, as would haue troubled much,
Th’Egyptian
Mages
to haue made more such.
What Artist now dares boast that he can bring
Heauen hither, or constellate any thing,
So as the influence of those starres may bee
Imprisoned in an Hearbe, or Charme, or Tree.
And doe by touch, all which those starres could doe?
The art is lost, and correspondence too.
For heauen giues little, and the earth takes lesse,
And man least knowes their trades and purposes.
If this commerce twixt heauen and earth were not
Embarr’d, and all this trafique quite forgot,
Shee, for whose losse we haue lamented thus,
Would worke more fully and pow’rfully on vs.
Since herbes and roots by dying, lose not all,
But they, yea Ashes too, are medicinall,
Death could not quench her vertue so, but that
It would be (if not follow’d) wondred at:
And all the world would be one dying Swan,
To sing her generall praise, and vanish than.
But as some Serpents poyson hurteth not,
Except it be from the liue Serpent shot,
So doth her vertue need her here, to fit
That unto vs; she working more then it.
But she, in whom, to such maturity,
Verue was grown, past gtrouth, that it must die,
She from whose influence all Impresion came,
But by receiuers impotencies, lame,
Who, though she could not transubstantiate
All states to gold, yet guilded euery state,
So that some Princes haue some temperance;
Some Counsellors some purpose to aduance
The common profite; and some people haue
Some stay, no more then Kings should giue, to craue;
Some women haue some taciturnity,
Some Nunneries, some graines of chastity.
She that did thus much, & much more could doe,
But that our age was Iron, and rusty too,
Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowest this,
Thou knowest how drie a Cinder this world is.
And learnst thus much by our Anatomy,
That ‘tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie
It with thy Teares, or Sweat, or Blood: no thing
Is worth our trauaile, griefe, or perishing,
But those rich ioyes, which did possesse her heart,
Of which shee’s now partaker, and a part.

Conclusion.

But as in cutting vp a man that’s dead,
The body will not last out to haue read
On euery part, and therefore men direct
Their speech to parts, that are of most effect;
So the worlds carcasse would not last, if I
Were punctuall in this Anatomy.
Nor smels it well to hearers, if one tell
Them their disease, who faine would thinke they’re well.
Here therefore be the end: And, blessed maid,
Of whom is meant what euer hath beene said,
Or shall be spoken well by any tongue,
Whose name refines course lines, and makes prose song,
Accept this tribute, and his first yeeres rent,
Who till his darke short tapers end be spent,
As oft as thy feast sees this widowed earth,
Will yeerely celebrate thy second birth,
That is, thy death. For though the soule of man
Be got when man is made, ‘tis borne but than
When man doth die, Our bodi’s as the wombe,
And as a Mid-wife death directs it home.
And you her creatures, whom she workes vpon
And haue your last, and best concoction
From her example, and her vertue, if you
In reuerence to her, doe thinke it due,
That no one should her prayses thus reherse,
As matter fit for Chronicle, not verse,
Vouchsafe to call to minde, that God did make
A last, and lastingst peece, a song. He spake
To
Moses
, to deliuer vnto all,
That song: because he knew they would let fall,
The Law, the Prophets, and the History,
But keepe the song still in their memory.
Such an opinion (in due measure) made
Me this great Office boldly to inuade.
Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre
Me, from thus trying to emprison her.
Which when I saw that a strict graue could doe,
I saw not why verse might not doe so too.
Verse hath a middle nature: Heauen keepes soules,
The Graue keepes bodies, Verse the fame enroules.

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY

O F
T H E   P R O G R E S
of the Soule.

Wherein,
B Y  O C C A S I O N  O F
The Religious death of Mistris
E L I Z A B E T H   D R V R Y,
the incommodities of the Soule
in this life, and her exaltation in
the next, are Contem-
plated
.

L O N D O N

THE  HARBINGER
to the Progresse.

TWO soules moue here, and mine (a third) must moue
Paces of admiration, and of loue
;
Thy soule (Deare Virgin) whose this tribute is,
Mou’d from this mortall sphere to liuely blisse,
And yet moues still, and still aspires to see
The worlds last day, thy glories full degree:
Like as those starres which thou ore-lookest farre,
Are in their place, and yet still moued are
No soule (whiles with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is) can follow thee halfe way;
Or see thy flight; which doth our thoughts outgoe
So fast, that now the lightning moues but slow:
But now thou art as high in heauen flowne
As heau’ns from vs; what soule besides thine owne
Can tell thy ioyes, or say he can relate
Thy glorious Iornals in that blessed state?
I enuie thee (Rich soule) I enuy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see:
And thou (Great spirit) which her’s follow’d hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So farre as none can follow thine so farre,
(And if this flesh did not the passage barre
Had’st caught her) let me wonder at thy flight
Which long agone had’st lost the vulgar sight
And now mak’st proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee les’ned in thine aery way;
So while thou mak’st her soule by progresse knowne
Thou mak’st a noble progresse of thine owne.
From this worlds carcasse hauing mounted hie
To that pure life of Immortalitie;
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselues so raise
That more may not beseeme a creatures praise,
Yet still thou vow’st her more; and euery yeare
Mak’st a new Progresse, while thou wandrest here;
Still vpward mount; and let thy makers praise
Honor thy Laura, and adorne thy laies.
And since thy Muses head in heauen shrouds
Oh let her neuer stoope below the clouds:
And if those glorious sainted soules may know
Or what we doe, or what we sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best
Which praise those awfull powers that make them blest.
  

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY

O F
T H E   P R O G R E S
of the Soule.

NOTHING could make me sooner to confesse. 

The entrance.

That this world had an euerlastingnesse,
Then to consider, that a yeare is runne,
Since both this lower worlds, and the Sunnes, Sunne,
The Lustre, and the vigor of this All,
Did set; t’were Blasphemy, to say, did fall.
But as a ship which hath strooke saile, doth runne,
By force of that force which before, it wonne:
Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,
Though at those two Red seas, which freely ran,
One from the Trunke, another from the Head,
His soule he saild, to her eternall bed,
His eies will twinckle, and his tongue will roll,
As though he beckned, and cal’d backe his Soul,
He graspes his hands, and he puls vp his feet,
And seemes to reach, and to step forth to meet
His soule; when all these motions which we saw,
Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw:
Or as a lute, which in moist weather, rings
Her knell alone, by cracking of her strings.
So strugles this dead world, now shee is gone;
For there is motion in corruption.
As some Daies are, at the Creation nam’d,
Before the Sunne, the which fram’d Daies, was fram’d,
So after this Sunnes set some show appeares,
And orderly vicissitude of yeares.
Yet a new Deluge, and of
Lethe
flood,
Hath drown’vs all, All haue forgot all good,
Forgetting her, the maine Reserue of all,
Yet in this Deluge, grosse and generall,
Thou seest me striue for life; my life shall be,
To bee hereafter prais’d, for praysing thee,
Immortall Maid, who though thou wouldst refuse
The name of Mother, be vnto my Muse,
A Father since her chaste ambition is,
Yearely to bring forth such a child as this.
These Hymnes may worke on future wits, and so
May great Grand-children of thy praises grow.
And so, though not Reuiue, enbalme, and spice
The world which else would putrifie with vice.
For thus, Man may extend thy progeny,
Vntill man doe but vanish, and not die.
These Hymns they issue, may encrease so long,
As till Gods great
Venite
change the song.
Thirst for that time, O my initiate soule,

A iust dis-estimation of this world.

And serue thy thirst, with Gods safe-sealing Bowle.
Bee thirsty still, and drinke still till thou goe;
To th’onely Health, to be Hydroptique so.
Forget this rotten world; And vnto thee,
Let thine owne times as an old story be.
Be not concern’d: study not why, nor whan;
Doe not so much, as not beleeue a man.
For though to erre, be worst, to try truths forth,
Is far more busines, then this world is worth.
The world is but a carcasse; thou art fed
By it, but as a worme, that carcas bred;
And why shouldst thou, poore worme, consider more,
When this world will grow better then before,
Then those thy fellow-wormes doe thinke vpone
That carcasses last resurrectione.
Forget this world, and scarse thinke of it so,
As of old cloaths, cast off a yeere agoe.
To be thus stupid as Alacrity;
Men thus lethargique haue best Memory.
Looke vpward; that’s towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
Shee, to whom all this world twas but a stage,
Where all sat harkning how her youthfull age
Should be emploid, because in all, shee did,
Some Figure of the Golden times, was hid.
Who could not lacke, what ere this world could giue,
Because shee was the forme, that made it liue;
Nor could complaine, that this world was vnfit,
To be staid in, then when shee was in it;
Shee that first tried indifferent desires
By vertue, and vertue by religious fires,
Shee to whose person Paradise adhear’d,
As Courts to Princes, she whose eies enspheard
Star-light inough, t’haue made the South controll,
(Had shee beene there) the Starfull Northern Pole,
Shee, shee is gone; shee is gone; when thou knowest this,
What fragmentary rubbidge this world is.
Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;
He honours it too much that thinkes it nought.
Thinke then, My soule, that death is but a Groome, 

Contemplation of our state in our death-bed.

Which brings a Taper to the outward roome,
Whence thou spiest first a glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy sight:
For such approches doth heauen make it in death.
Thinke thy selfe labouring now with broken breath,
And thinke those broken & soft Notes to bee
Diuision, and thy happiest Harmonee.
Thinke thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slacke;
And thinke that but vnbinding of a packe,
To take one precious thing, thy soule, from thence.
Thinke thy selfe parch’d with feuers violence,
Anger thine Ague more, by calling it
Thy Physicke; chide the slacknes of the fit.
Thinke that thou hear’st thy knell, and thinke no more,
But that, as Bels cal’d thee to Church before,
So this, to the Triumphant Church, cals thee.
Thinke Satans Sergeants round about thee bee,
And thinke that but for Legcies they thrust;
Giue one thy Pride, to ‘another giue thy Lust:
Giue them those sinnes which they gaue before,
And trust th’immaculate blood to wash thy score.
Thinke thy friends weeping round, and thinke that thay
Weepe but because they goe not yet thy way.
Thinke they confesse much in the world, amisse
Who dare not trust a dead mans eye with that,
Which they from God, and Angels couer not.
Thinke that they shourd thee vp, and thinke from thence
They reinuest thee in white innocence.
Thinke that thy body rots, and (if so lowe,
Thy soule exhalted so, thy thoughts can goe.)
Thinke thee a Prince, who of themselues create
Wormes which insensibly deuoure their state.
Thinke that they bury thee, and thinke that right
Laies thee to sleepe but a Saint Lucies night.
Thinke these things cheerfully: and if thou bee
Drowsie or slacke, remember then that shee,
She whose Complexion was so euen made,
That which of her Ingredients should inuade
The other three, no Feare, no Art could guesse:
So farre were all remou’d from more or lesse.
But as in Mithridate, or iust perfumes,
Where all good things being met, no one presumes
To gouerne, or to triumph on the rest,
Onely because all were, no part was best.
And as, though all doe know, that quantities
Are made of lines, and lines from Points arise,
None can these lines or quantities vnioynt,
And say this is a line, or this a point,
So though the Elements and Humors were
In her, one could not say, this gouerns there.
Whose euen constitution might haue worne
Any disease to venter on the Sunne,
Rather then her: and make a spirit feare
That he to disuniting subiect were.
To whose proportions if we would compare
Cubes, th’are vnstable, Circles, Angulare,
Shee who was such a Chaine, as Fate emploies
To bring mankind, all Fortunes it enioyes,
So fast, so euen wrought, as one would thinke,
No accident, could threaten any linke,
Shee, shee embrac’d a sicknesse, gaue it meat,
The purest Blood, and Breath, that ere it eat.
And hath taught vs that though a good man hath
Title to Heauen, and plead it by his Faith,
And though he may pretend a conquest, since
Heauen was content to suffer violence,
Yea though he plead a long possesion too,
(For they’re in heauen on earth, who heauens workes do,)
Though he had right, & power and place before,
Yet Death must vsher, and vnlocke the doore.
Thinke further on thy selfe, my soule, and thinke;
How thou at first was made but in a sinke;
Thinke that it argued some infermitee,
That those two soules, which then thou foundst in mee,
Thou fedst upon, and drewst into thee, both
My second soule of sence, and first of growth.
Thinke but how poore thou wast, how obnoxious;
Whom a small lumpe of flesh could poyson thus.
This curded milke, this poore vnlittered whelpe
My body, could, beyound escape, or helpe,
Infect thee with originall sinne, and thou
Couldst neither then refuse, nor leaue it now.
Thinke that no stubborne sullen Anchorit,
Which fixt to’a Pillar, or a Graue doth sit
Bedded and Bath’d in all his Ordures, dwels
So fowly as our soules, in their first-built Cels.
Thinke in how poore a prison thou didst lie
After, enabled but to sucke, and crie.
Thinke, when t’was growne to most, t’was a poore Inne,
A Prouince Pack’d vp in two yards of skinne.
And that vsurped, or threatned with the rage
Of sicknesses, or their true mother, Age.
But thinke that Death hath now enfranchis’d thee,