Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death
About this Item
- Title
- Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death
- Author
- Donne, John, 1572-1631.
- Publication
- London :: Printed by M[iles] F[lesher] for Iohn Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstans Church-yard in Fleet-street,
- 1633.
- Rights/Permissions
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- Cite this Item
-
"Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A69225.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 21, 2024.
Pages
Page 258
And yet moves still, and still aspires to see
The worlds last day, thy glories full degree:
Like as those starres which thou o'r-lookest farre,
Are in their place, and yet still moved 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 moves but slow:
But now thou art as high in heaven flowne
As heaven's from us; what soule besides thine owne
Can tell thy joyes, or say he can relate
Thy glorious Journals in that blessed state?
I envie thee (Rich soule) I envy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see:
And thou (great spirit) which hers follow'd hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So far, as none can follow thine so farre,
(And if this flesh did not the passage barre
Hadst caught her) let me wonder at thy flight
Which long agone hadst lost the vulgar sight,
And now mak'st proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee less'ned in thine ayery way;
So while thou mak'st her soule by progresse knowne
Thou mak'st a noble progresse of thine owne.
From this worlds carkasse having mounted high
To that pure life of immortalitie;
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselves so raise
That more may not beseeme a creatures praise,
Yet still thou vow'st her more; and every yeare
Mak'st a new progresse, while thou wandrest here;
Page 259
Still upward mount; and let thy Makers praise
Honor thy Laura, and adorne thy laies.
And since thy Muse her head in heaven shrouds,
Oh let her never stoope below the clouds:
And if those glorious sainted soules may know
Or what wee doe, or what wee sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best
Which praise those awfull Powers that make them blest.