University of Virginia Library

Upon Mr J. Donne, and his Poems.

Who dares say thou art dead, when he doth see
(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?
This part that to thy beeing gives fresh flame,
And though th'art Donne, yet will preserve thy name.
Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimson hew,
And whey-like ranne at last in a pale blew)
May shew thee mortall, a dead palsie may
Seise on't, and quickly turne it into clay;
Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd:
But this great Spirit thou hast left behinde,
This Soule of Verse (in it's first pure estate)
Shall live, for all the World to imitate,
But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight
Thou dost not stoope unto the vulgar sight,
But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit,
Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it;
Admire they may. Each object that the Spring
(Or a more piercing influence) doth bring
T'adorne Earths face, thou sweetly did'st contrive
To beauties elements, and thence derive
Unspotted Lillies white; which thou did'st set
Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,
Making them soft, and warme, and by thy power,
Could'st give both life, and sense, unto a flower.
The Cheries thou hast made to speake, will bee
Sweeter unto the taste, then from the tree.
And (spight of winter stormes) amidst the snow
Thou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow.
The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe,
Have sent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe
To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew
More lustre to them, then where first they grew,
All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold
Promiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold,
And with thy flaming raptures so refine,
That it was much more pure then in the Mine.
The lights that guild the night, if thou did'st say,
They looke like eyes, those did out-shine the day;
For there would be more vertue in such spells,
Then in Meridians, or crosse Parallels:
What ever was of worth in this great Frame,
That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,
It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see,
Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie.
Thy nimble Satyres too, and every straine
(With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain,
Will lose the glory of their owne cleare bayes,
If they admit of any others praise.
But thy diviner Poëms (whose cleare fire
Purges all drosse away) shall by a Quire
Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set
(Where flesh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet)
There purest Spirits sing such sacred Layes,
In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.