JOHN DONNE.

BORN 1573; DIED 1631.

THE life and character of Donne have been made familiar to his countrymen by the affectionate biography of the poet's friend and parishioner, Walton. He was the first, and certainly the most vigorous of that poetical school which the critics have held up to ridicule under the character of "metaphysical,”—a term sufficiently alarming to modern ears to have had the effect of limiting the popularity of those writers who have been assigned to the class so stigmatized. Another inexpiable offence of Donne's is the harshness of his versification. Admitting that he is frequently rugged and sometimes obscure, the judicious critic will yet not deny to this once favourite writer, the praise of a true and often a delightful poet; nor will it surprise him, that more than is needful has been said on both points, in times which abound with readers more capable of relishing voluptuous sweetness of language than of appreciating depth of sentiment and originality of thought; and ignorant that it is necessary to reflect on what is read, if we would correctly judge and effectually profit. There is much, undoubtedly, in the volume of Donne's Poems, which cannot be more fitly disposed of, than as "Alms for Oblivion;" but there is also much, for the sake of which it is worth while making one more attempt to avert the fulfilment of Ben Jonson's prediction, that "for want of being understood he would perish.”

The chief prose works of Donne are his "Pseudo-Martyr," "Essays in Divinity," a volume of Devotions-but above all, his "Sermons."

JOHN DONNE.

THE SOUL.

THEE, eye of heaven, this great soul envies not;
By thy male force is all we have begot:
In the first east thou now begin'st to shine,
Suck'st early balm, and island spices there;
And wilt anon, in thy loose-reined career,
At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danon dine,
And see at night this western land of mine;
Yet hast thou not more nations seen than she,
That before thee one day began to be,

And, thy frail light being quenched, shall long, long outlive thee.

THE ASCENSION.

SALUTE the last and everlasting day,
Joy at the uprising of this Sun and Son,

Ye, whose just tears, or tribulation

Have purely washed, or burnt, your drossy clay:

Behold, the Highest, parting hence away, Lightens the dark clouds, which he treads upon; Nor doth he, by ascending, show alone,

But first he, and he first enters the way.

O strong Ram, which hast battered heaven for me; Mild Lamb, which with thy blood, hast marked the path;

Bright torch, which shin'st, that I the way may see,— Oh, with thy own blood quench thy own just

wrath,

And if thy Holy Spirit my muse did raise,
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

HOLY SONNETS.

I.

As due, by many titles, I resign

Myself to thee, O God: first, I was made

By thee, and for thee; and when I was decayed,
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine.
I am thy son, made with thyself to shine;
Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid;
Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betray'd
Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine.

Why doth the devil then usurp on me?

Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that's thy right ?
Except thou rise, and for thy own work fight,
O, I shall soon despair, when I do see

That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose

me;

And Satan hates me, yet is loath to lose me.

II.

O, MY black soul! now thou art summoned
By sickness, death's herald and champion,
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled;
Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read,
Wisheth himself delivered from prison;
But, damned and haled to execution,
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned:
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack.
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
O, make thyself with holy mourning black,
And red with blushing, as thou art with sin;
Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this
might,

That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

III.

THIS is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint

My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,

Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace,
My span's last inch, my minute's latest point,
And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space;
But my ever-waking part shall see that face,
Whose fear already shakes my every joint.

Then, as my soul, to heaven, her first seat, takes flight,

And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell;
So fall my sins, that all may have their right,