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Home  »  Parnassus  »  John Donne (1572–1631)

Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.

Elegy on Mistress Elizabeth Drury

John Donne (1572–1631)

(See full text.)

SHE, of whose soul, if we may say, ’twas gold,

Her body was the Electrum, and did hold

Many degrees of that; we understood

Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,

That one might almost say, her body thought.

She, she thus richly, largely housed, is gone,

And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon

Our prison’s prison, Earth, nor think us well

Longer than whilst we bear our little shell.

*****

What hope have we to know ourselves, when we

Know not the least things which for our use be?

What Cæsar did, yea, and what Cicero said,

Why grass is green, or why our blood is red,

Are mysteries which none have reached unto;

In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do?

O when wilt thou shake off this pedantry

Of being caught by sense and fantasy?

Thou look’st through spectacles; small things seem great

Below; but up into the watch-tower get,

And see all things despoiled of fallacies;

Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes,

Nor hear through labyrinths of ears, nor learn

By circuit or collections to discern;

In heaven then straight know’st all concerning it,

And what concerns it not, shall straight forget.

There thou but in no other school mayst be

Perchance as learned and as full as she;

She, who all libraries had thoroughly read

At home in her own thoughts, and practisèd

So much good as would make as many more.

*****

Up, up, my drowsy soul! where thy new ear

Shall in the angels’ songs no discord hear;

Where thou shalt see the blessed Mother-maid

Joy in not being that which men have said;

Where she’s exalted more for being good,

Than for her interest of Motherhood:

Up to those Patriarchs, who did longer sit

Expecting Christ, than they’ve enjoyed him yet:

Up to those Prophets, who now gladly see

Their prophecies grown to be history:

Up to the Apostles, who did bravely run

All the sun’s course, with more light than the sun:

Up to those Martyrs, who did calmly bleed

Oil to the Apostles’ lamps, dew to their seed:

Up to those Virgins, who thought that almost

They made joint-tenants with the Holy Ghost,

If they to any should his Temple give:

Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live

She who hath carried thither new degrees,

(As to their number,) to their dignities.

*****

She whom we celebrate is gone before:

She who had here so much essential joy,

As no chance could distract, much less destroy;

Who with God’s presence was acquainted so,

(Hearing and speaking to him,) as to know

His face in any natural stone or tree

Better than when in images they be:

Who kept by diligent devotion

God’s image in such reparation

Within her heart, that what decay was grown

Was her first Parent’s fault, and not her own:

Who, being solicited to any act,

Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract:

Who, by a faithful confidence was here

Betrothed to God, and now is married there:

Whose twilights were more clear than our mid-day;

Who dreamed devoutlier than most use to pray:

Who being here filled with grace, yet strove to be

Both where more grace and more capacity

At once is given. She to Heaven is gone,

Who made this world in some proportion

A Heaven, and here became unto us all

Joy, (as our joys admit,) essential.