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Sleep, sleep, old sun; thou canst not have re-past[81]
As yet the wound thou took'st on Friday last.
Sleep then, and rest: the world may bear thy stay; A better sun rose before thee to-day; Who, not content to enlighten all that dwell On the earth's face as thou, enlightened h.e.l.l, And made the dark fires languish in that vale, As at thy presence here our fires grow pale; Whose body, having walked on earth and now Hastening to heaven, would, that he might allow Himself unto all stations and fill all, For these three days become a mineral.
He was all gold when he lay down, but rose All tincture; and doth not alone dispose Leaden and iron wills to good, but is Of power to make even sinful flesh like his.
Had one of those, whose credulous piety Thought that a soul one might discern and see Go from a body, at this sepulchre been, And issuing from the sheet this body seen, He would have justly thought this body a soul, If not of any man, yet of the whole.
What a strange mode of saying that he is our head, the captain of our salvation, the perfect humanity in which our life is hid! Yet it has its dignity. When one has got over the oddity of these last six lines, the figure contained in them shows itself almost grand.
As an individual specimen of the grotesque form holding a fine sense, regard for a moment the words,
He was all gold when he lay down, but rose All tincture;
which means, that, entirely good when he died, he was something yet greater when he rose, for he had gained the power of making others good: the _tincture_ intended here was a substance whose touch would turn the basest metal into gold.
Through his poems are scattered many fine pa.s.sages; but not even his large influence on the better poets who followed is sufficient to justify our listening to him longer now.
CHAPTER VIII.
BISHOP HALL AND GEORGE SANDYS.
Joseph Hall, born in 1574, a year after Dr. Donne, bishop, first of Exeter, next of Norwich, is best known by his satires. It is not for such that I can mention him: the most honest satire can claim no place amongst religious poems. It is doubtful if satire ever did any good. Its very language is that of the half-brute from which it is well named.
Here are three poems, however, which the bishop wrote for his choir.
ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER.
Lord, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasy clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying: My time, my flesh, my life, and I, What are we, Lord, but vanity?
Where am I, Lord? Down in a vale of death.
What is my trade? Sin, my dear G.o.d offending; My sport sin too, my stay a puff of breath.
What end of sin? h.e.l.l's horror never ending: My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place, Help to make up my doleful case.
Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss.
Where dwell'st thou? Up above in perfect light.
What is thy time? Eternity it is.
What state? Attendance of each glorious sprite: Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state Pa.s.s all the thoughts of powers create.
How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above, Ambitious soul. But which way should I fly?
Thou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts--of faith, of hope, of love: Oh, let these wings, that way alone Present me to thy blissful throne.
FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY.
Immortal babe, who this dear day Didst change thine heaven for our clay, And didst with flesh thy G.o.dhead veil, Eternal Son of G.o.d, all hail!
s.h.i.+ne, happy star! Ye angels, sing Glory on high to heaven's king!
Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch!
See heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch! _manger._
Wors.h.i.+p, ye sages of the east, The king of G.o.ds in meanness drest!
O blessed maid, smile, and adore The G.o.d thy womb and arms have bore!
Star, angels, shepherds, and wise sages!
Thou virgin-glory of all ages!
Restored frame of heaven and earth!
Joy in your dear Redeemer's birth.
Leave, O my soul, this baser world below; O leave this doleful dungeon of woe; And soar aloft to that supernal rest That maketh all the saints and angels blest: Lo, there the G.o.dhead's radiant throne, Like to ten thousand suns in one!
Lo, there thy Saviour dear, in glory dight, _dressed._ Adored of all the powers of heavens bright!
Lo, where that head that bled with th.o.r.n.y wound, s.h.i.+nes ever with celestial honour crowned!
That hand that held the scornful reed Makes all the fiends infernal dread.
That back and side that ran with b.l.o.o.d.y streams Daunt angels' eyes with their majestic beams; Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree, Trample on Death and h.e.l.l, in glorious glee.
Those lips, once drenched with gall, do make With their dread doom the world to quake.
Behold those joys thou never canst behold; Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold, Those streams of life, those trees of Paradise That never can be seen by mortal eyes!
And when thou seest this state divine, Think that it is or shall be thine.
See there the happy troops of purest sprites That live above in endless true delights!
And see where once thyself shalt ranged be, And look and long for immortality!
And now beforehand help to sing Hallelujahs to heaven's king.
Polished as these are in comparison to those of Dr. Donne, and fine, too, as they are intrinsically, there are single phrases in his that are worth them all--except, indeed, that one splendid line,
Trample on Death and h.e.l.l in glorious glee.
George Sandys, the son of an archbishop of York, and born in 1577, is better known by his travels in the east than by his poetry. But his version of the Psalms is in good and various verse, not unfrequently graceful, sometimes fine. The following is not only in a popular rhythm, but is neat and melodious as well.
PSALM XCII.
Thou who art enthroned above, Thou by whom we live and move, O how sweet, how excellent Is't with tongue and heart's consent, Thankful hearts and joyful tongues, To renown thy name in songs!
When the morning paints the skies, When the sparkling stars arise, Thy high favours to rehea.r.s.e, Thy firm faith, in grateful verse!
Take the lute and violin, Let the solemn harp begin, Instruments strung with ten strings, While the silver cymbal rings.
From thy works my joy proceeds; How I triumph in thy deeds!
Who thy wonders can express?
All thy thoughts are fathomless-- Hid from men in knowledge blind, Hid from fools to vice inclined.
