Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PREFATORY POEMS TO DONNE'S ANNIVERSARIES: TO THE PRAISE OF THE DEAD, by JOSEPH HALL Poet's Biography First Line: Well dy'd the world, that we might live to see Last Line: Till wee shall sing thy ditty and thy note. Subject(s): Donne, John (1572-1631); Poetry & Poets | ||||||||
Well dy'd the World, that we might live to see This world of wit, in his Anatomie: No evill wants his good; so wilder heires Bedew their Fathers Tombes, with forced teares, Whose state requites their losse: whiles thus we gain, Well may wee walke in blacks, but not complaine. Yet how can I consent the world is dead While this Muse lives? which in his spirits stead Seemes to informe a World; and bids it bee, In spight of losse or fraile mortalitie? And thou the subject of this welborne thought, Thrice noble maid, couldst not have found nor sought A fitter time to yeeld to thy sad Fate, Then whiles this spirit lives, that can relate Thy worth so well to our last Nephews eyne, That they shall wonder both at his and thine: Admired match! where strives in mutuall grace The cunning pencill, and the comely face: A taske which thy faire goodnesse made too much For the bold pride of vulgar pens to touch; Enough is us to praise them that praise thee, And say, that but enough those prayses bee, Which hadst thou liv'd, had hid their fearfull head From th'angry checkings of thy modest red: Death barres reward and shame: when envy's gone, And gaine, 'tis safe to give the dead their owne. As then the wise Egyptians wont to lay More on their Tombes, then houses: these of clay, But those of brasse, or marble were: so wee Give more unto thy Ghost, then unto thee. Yet what wee give to thee, thou gav'st to us, And may'st but thanke thy selfe, for being thus: Yet what thou gav'st, and wert, O happy maid, Thy grace profest all due, where 'tis repayd. So these high songs that to thee suited bin Serve but to sound thy Makers praise, in thine, Which thy deare soule as sweetly sings to him Amid the Quire of Saints, and Seraphim, As any Angels tongue can sing of thee; The subjects differ, though the skill agree: For as by infant-yeares men judge of age, Thy early love, thy vertues, did presage What an high part thou bear'st in those best songs, Whereto no burden, nor no end belongs. Sing on thou virgin Soule, whose lossfull gaine Thy lovesick parents have bewail'd in vaine; Never may thy Name be in our songs forgot, Till wee shall sing thy ditty and thy note. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE'S POEMS by ROBERT HASS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY AS A SONG by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 192 by LYN HEJINIAN LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A POEM BRINGS by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JUNE JOURNALS 6/25/88 by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA FOLLOW ROZEWICZ by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA HAVING INTENDED TO MERELY PICK ON AN OIL COMPANY, THE POEM GOES AWRY by HICOK. BOB AN EPIGRAM ON JOHN MARSTON by JOSEPH HALL ANTHEMES FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXCETER: 1 by JOSEPH HALL ANTHEMES FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXCETER: 2. ANTHEME FOR CHRISTMAS DAY by JOSEPH HALL |
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