John Donne - Delphi Poets Series (20 page)
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Authors: John Donne
VI.
GOING TO THE CHAPEL.
Now from your easts you issue forth, and we,
As men, which through a cypress see
The rising sun, do think it two;
So, as you go to church, do think of you;
But that veil being gone,
By the church rites you are from thenceforth one.
The church triumphant made this match before,
And now the militant doth strive no more.
Then, reverend priest, who God’s Recorder art,
Do, from his dictates, to these two impart
All blessings which are seen, or thought, by angel’s
eye or heart.
VII.
THE BENEDICTION.
Blest pair of swans, O may you interbring
Daily new joys, and never sing;
Live, till all grounds of wishes fail,
Till honour, yea, till wisdom grow so stale,
That new great heights to try,
I must serve your ambition, to die;
Raise heirs, and may here, to the world’s end, live
Heirs from this king, to take thanks, you, to give.
Nature and grace do all, and nothing art;
May never age or error overthwart
With any west these radiant eyes, with any north
this heart.
VIII.
FEASTS AND REVELS.
But you are over-blest. Plenty this day
Injures; it causeth time to stay;
The tables groan, as though this feast
Would, as the flood, destroy all fowl and beast.
And were the doctrine new
That the earth moved, this day would make it true;
For every part to dance and revel goes,
They tread the air, and fall not where they rose.
Though six hours since the sun to bed did part,
The masks and banquets will not yet impart
A sunset to these weary eyes, a centre to this heart.
IX.
THE BRIDE’S GOING TO BED.
What mean’st thou, bride, this company to keep?
To sit up, till thou fain wouldst sleep?
Thou mayst not, when thou’rt laid, do so;
Thyself must to him a new banquet grow;
And you must entertain
And do all this day’s dances o’er again.
Know that if sun and moon together do
Rise in one point, they do not set so too.
Therefore thou mayst, fair bride, to bed depart;
Thou art not gone, being gone; where’er thou art,
Thou leavest in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy
loving heart.
X.
THE BRIDEGROOM’S COMING.
As he that sees a star fall, runs apace,
And finds a jelly in the place,
So doth the bridegroom haste as much,
Being told this star is fallen, and finds her such.
And as friends may look strange,
By a new fashion, or apparel’s change,
Their souls, though long acquainted they had been,
These clothes, their bodies, never yet had seen.
Therefore at first she modestly might start,
But must forthwith surrender every part,
As freely as each to each before gave either eye or
heart.
XI.
THE GOOD-NIGHT.
Now, as in Tullia’s tomb, one lamp burnt clear,
Unchanged for fifteen hundred year,
May these love-lamps we here enshrine,
In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine.
Fire ever doth aspire,
And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,
But ends in ashes; which these cannot do,
For none of these is fuel, but fire too.
This is joy’s bonfire, then, where love’s strong arts
Make of so noble individual parts
One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts.
IDIOS. As I have brought this song, that I may do
A perfect sacrifice, I’ll burn it too.
ALLOPHANES. No, sir. This paper I have justly got,
For, in burnt incense, the perfume is not
His only that presents it, but of all;
Whatever celebrates this festival
Is common, since the joy thereof is so.
Nor may yourself be priest; but let me go
Back to the court, and I will lay it upon
Such altars, as prize your devotion.
EPITHALAMION MADE AT LINCOLN’S INN.
I
HAIL sun-beams in the east are spread;
Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed;
No more shall you return to it alone;
It nurseth sadness, and your body’s print,
Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint;
You, and your other you, meet there anon.
Put forth, put forth, that warm balm-breathing thigh,
Which when next time you in these sheets will smother,
There it must meet another,
Which never was, but must be, oft, more nigh.
Come glad from thence, go gladder than you came;
To-day put on perfection, and a woman’s name.
Daughters of London, you which be
Our golden mines, and furnish’d treasury;
You which are angels, yet still bring with you
Thousands of angels on your marriage days;
Help with your presence, and devise to praise
These rites, which also unto you grow due;
Conceitedly dress her, and be assign’d,
By you fit place for every flower and jewel;
Make her for love fit fuel,
As gay as Flora and as rich as Ind;
So may she, fair and rich in nothing lame,
To-day put on perfection, and a woman’s name.
And you frolic patricians,
Sons of those senators, wealth’s deep oceans;
Ye painted courtiers, barrels of other’s wits;
Ye countrymen, who but your beasts love none;
Ye of those fellowships, whereof he’s one,
Of study and play made strange hermaphrodites,
Here shine; this bridegroom to the temple bring.
Lo, in yon path which store of strew’d flowers graceth,
The sober virgin paceth;
Except my sight fail, ‘tis no other thing.
Weep not, nor blush, here is no grief nor shame,
To-day put on perfection, and a woman’s name.
Thy two-leaved gates, fair temple, unfold,
And these two in thy sacred bosom hold,
Till mystically join’d but one they be;
Then may thy lean and hunger-starvèd womb
Long time expect their bodies, and their tomb,
Long after their own parents fatten thee.
All elder claims, and all cold barrenness,
All yielding to new loves, be far for ever,
Which might these two dissever;
Always, all th’other may each one possess;
For the best bride, best worthy of praise and fame,
To-day puts on perfection, and a woman’s name.
Winter days bring much delight,
Not for themselves, but for they soon bring night;
Other sweets wait thee than these diverse meats,
Other disports than dancing jollities,
Other love-tricks than glancing with the eyes,
But that the sun still in our half sphere sweats;
He flies in winter, but he now stands still.
Yet shadows turn; noon point he hath attain’d;
His steeds will be restrain’d,
But gallop lively down the western hill.
Thou shalt, when he hath run the heaven’s half frame,
To-night put on perfection, and a woman’s name.
The amorous evening star is rose,
Why then should not our amorous star inclose
Herself in her wish’d bed? Release your strings,
Musicians; and dancers take some truce
With these your pleasing labours, for great use
As much weariness as perfection brings.
You, and not only you, but all toil’d beasts
Rest duly; at night all their toils are dispensed;
But in their beds commenced
Are other labours, and more dainty feasts.
She goes a maid, who, lest she turn the same,
To-night puts on perfection, and a woman’s name.
Thy virgin’s girdle now untie,
And in thy nuptial bed, love’s altar, lie
A pleasing sacrifice; now dispossess
Thee of these chains and robes, which were put on
To adorn the day, not thee; for thou, alone,
Like virtue and truth, art best in nakedness.
This bed is only to virginity
A grave, but to a better state, a cradle.
Till now thou wast but able
To be, what now thou art; then, that by thee
No more be said, “ I may be,” but, “ I am,”
To-night put on perfection, and a woman’s name.
Even like a faithful man content,
That this life for a better should be spent,
So she a mother’s rich stile doth prefer,
And at the bridegroom’s wish’d approach doth lie,
Like an appointed lamb, when tenderly
The priest comes on his knees to embowel her.
Now sleep or watch with more joy; and, O light
Of heaven, to-morrow rise thou hot, and early;
This sun will love so dearly
Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight.
Wonders are wrought, for she, which had no maim,
To-night puts on perfection, and a woman’s name.
VERSE LETTERS
CONTENTS
A Letter Written by Sir H. G. and J. D. alternis vicibus
To Sir Henry Wotton, at his going Ambassador to Venice
H. W. in Hibernia Belligeranti
To Sir Edward Herbert, at Juliers
To the Countess of Bedford at New Year's Tide
A Letter to the Lady Carey, and Mistress Essex Rich, from Amiens
The Storm
To Mr Christopher Brooke
Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be so)
Thou which art still thyself, by these shalt know
Part of our passage; and, a hand, or eye
By Hilliard drawn, is worth an history,
By a worse painter made; and (without pride)
When by thy judgement they are dignified,
My lines are such: 'tis the pre-eminence
Of friendship only to impute excellence.
England to whom we owe, what we be, and have,
Sad that her sons did seek a foreign grave
(For, Fate's, or Fortune's drifts none can soothsay,
Honour and misery have one face and way)
From out her pregnant entrails sighed a wind
Which at th' air's middle marble room did find
Such strong resistance, that itself it threw
Downward again; and so when it did view
How in the port, our fleet dear time did leese,
Withering like prisoners, which lie but for fees,
Mildly it kissed our sails, and, fresh and sweet,
As to a stomach starved, whose insides meet,
Meat comes, it came; and swole our sails, when we
So joyed, as Sara her swelling joyed to see.
But 'twas but so kind, as our countrymen,
Which bring friends one day's way, and leave them the
Then like two mighty kings, which dwelling far
Asunder, meet against a third to war,
The south and west winds joined, and, as they blew,
Waves like a rolling trench before them threw.
Sooner than you read this line, did the gale,
Like shot, not feared till felt, our sails assail;
And what at first was called a gust, the same
Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name.
Jonas, I pity thee, and curse those men,
Who when the storm raged most, did wake thee then;
Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil
All offices of death, except to kill.
But when I waked, I saw, that I saw not.
I, and the sun, which should teach me had forgot
East, west, day, night, and I could only say,
If the world had lasted, now it had been day.
Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all
Could none by his right name, but thunder call:
Lightning was all our light, and it rained more
Than if the sun had drunk the sea before.
Some coffined in their cabins lie, equally
Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must die.
And as sin-burdened souls from graves will creep,
At the last day, some forth their cabins peep:
And tremblingly ask what news, and do hear so,
Like jealous husbands, what they would not know.
Some sitting on the hatches, would seem there,
With hideous gazing to fear away fear.
Then note they the ship's sicknesses, the mast
Shaked with this ague, and the hold and waist
With a salt dropsy clogged, and all our tacklings
Snapping, like too high stretched treble strings.
And from our tottered sails, rags drop down so,
As from one hanged in chains, a year ago.
Even our ordnance placed for our defence,
Strive to break loose, and 'scape away from thence.
Pumping hath tired our men, and what's the gain?