Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ELEGIE, by JOHN DONNE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ELEGIE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Death be not proud, thy hand gave not this blow
Last Line: The grave no conquest gets, death hath no sting.
Subject(s): Death; Epitaphs; Dead, The


Death be not proud, thy hand gave not this blow,
Sinne was her captive, whence thy power doth flow;
The executioner of wrath thou art,
But to destroy the just is not thy part.
Thy comming, terrour, anguish, griefe denounce;
Her happy state, courage, ease, joy pronounce.
From out the Christall palace of her breast,
The clearer soule was call'd to endlesse rest,
(Not by the thundering voyce, wherewith God threats,
But, as with crowned Saints in heaven he treats,)
And, waited on by Angels, home was brought,
To joy that it through many dangers sought;
The key of mercy gently did unlocke
The doores 'twixt heaven and it, when life did knock.
Nor boast, the fairest frame was made thy prey,
Because to mortall eyes it did decay;
A better witnesse than thou art, assures,
That though dissolv'd, it yet a space endures;
No dramme thereof shall want or losse sustaine,
When her best soule inhabits it again.
Goe then to people curst before they were,
Their spoyles in Triumph of thy conquest weare.
Glory not thou thy selfe in these hot teares
Which our face, not for hers, but our harme weares,
The mourning livery given by Grace, not thee,
Which wils our soules in these streams washt should be,
And on our hearts, her memories best tombe,
In this her Epitaph doth write thy doome.
Blinde were those eyes, saw not how bright did shine
through fleshes misty vaile the beames divine.
Deafe were the eares, not charm'd with that sweet sound
Which did i'th spirit-instructed voice abound.
Of flint the conscience, did not yeeld and melt,
At what in her last Act it saw, heard, felt.
Weep not, nor grudge then, to have lost her sight,
Taught thus, our after stay's but a short night:
But by all soules not by corruption choaked
Let in high rais'd notes that power be invoked.
Calme the rough seas, by which she sayles to rest,
From sorrowes here, to a kingdome ever blest;
And teach this hymne of her with joy, and sing,
The grave no conquest gets, Death hath no sting.





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