MY EVER DESIRED DR. DONNE,
BY H. KING, LATE BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.
To have lived eminent, in a degree Beyond our loftiest thoughts, that is, like thee; Or t' have had too much merit, is not safe, For such excesses find no epitaph.
At common graves we have poetic eyes Can melt themselves in easy elegies; Each quill can drop his tributary verse, And pin it, like the hatchments, to the hearse: But at thine, poem or inscription
(Rich soul of wit and language) we have none. Indeed a silence does that tomb befit, Where is no herald left to blazon it. Widowed Invention justly doth forbear To come abroad, knowing thou art not there : Late her great patron, whose prerogative Maintained and clothed her so, as none alive Must now presume to keep her at thy rate, Though he the Indies for her dower estate. Or else that awful fire, which once did burn In thy clear brain, now fallen into thy urn, Lives there to fright rude empirics from thence, Which might profane thee by their ignorance.
Whoever writes of thee, and in a style Unworthy such a theme, does but revile Thy precious dust, and wakes a learned spirit, Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit. For all a low-pitched fancy can devise Will prove at best but hallowed injuries.
• Thou, like the dying swan, didst lately sing Thy mournful dirge in audience of the king; When pale looks and faint accents of thy breath Presented so to life that piece of death, That it was feared and prophesied by all Thou thither cam'st to preach thy funeral. Oh! hadst thou in an elegiac knell Rung out unto the world thine own farewell, And in thy high, victorious numbers beat The solemn measures of thy grieved retreat, Thou might'st the poet's service now have missed, As well as then thou didst prevent the priest : And never to the world beholden be, 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, Shouldst now reborrow from her bankrupt mine That ore to bury thee which first was thine; Rather still leave us in thy debt; and know, Exalted soul! more glory 't is to owe Thy memory, what we can never pay, Than with embased coin those rites defray.
Commit we then thee to thyself, nor blame Our drooping loves, that thus to thine own fame
Leave thee executor, since but thine own No pen could do thee justice, nor bays crown Thy vast deserts; save that we nothing can Depute to be thy ashes' guardian.
So jewellers no art or metal trust To form the diamond, but the diamond's dust.
AN ELEGY ON DOCTOR DONNE.
OUR Donne is dead! and we may sighing say, We had that man where language chose to stay, And show her utmost power. I would not praise That and his great wit, which in our vain days Make others proud; but as these served to unlock That cabinet, his mind, where such a stock Of knowledge was reposed, that I lament Our just and general 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 Can make such men as I write elegies.
And wonder uot; for when so great a loss Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross, God hath raised prophets to awaken them From their dull lethargy; witness my pen,
Not used to upbraid the world, though now it must Freely and boldly, for the cause is just.
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 For thee and thine successively to pay
Some sad remembrance to his dying day?
Did his youth scatter poetry, wherein Lay love's philosophy? Was every sin Pictured in his sharp satires, made so foul That some have feared Sin's shapes, and kept their
Safer by reading verse? Did he give days, Past marble monuments, to those whose praise He would perpetuate? Did he (I fear Envy will doubt) these at his twentieth year?
But, more matured, did his rich 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 wiped 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 doubtless shall, As times grow better, grow more classical? Did he write hymns, for piety and wit, Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?
Spake he all languages? Knew he all laws? The grounds and use of physic - (but because 'T was mercenary waved it)? went to see That happy place of Christ's nativity? Did he return and preach him? preach him so, As, since St. Paul, none ever did? they know - Those happy souls that heard him, know this truth. Did he confirm thy ag'd, convert thy youth? Did he these wonders? and is his 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 conceived and hid, consumes Man's life insensibly (as poison's fumes Corrupt the brain), take silence for the way T' enlarge the soul from these walls, mud and clay (Materials of this body), to remain With him in heaven, where no promiscuous pain Lessons those joys we have; for with him all Are satisfied with joys essential.
Dwell on these joys, my thoughts! - Oh! do not call Grief back, by thinking on his funeral. Forget he loved me. Waste not my swift years Which haste to David's seventy, filled with fears And sorrows for his death. Forget his parts, They 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:
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