[Line: 44 'Wit'--in that seventeenth-century sense of which Sir Henry Craik has so well defined the object--'not to excite laughter but to compel attention'--was regarded, and rightly, as Donne's special glory, and the best thing written on his death was Carew's
A king who ruled as he thought fit The universal monarchy of Wit. ]
[Line: 49 For 'Unto thy hearse' the Walton version reads 'Thy memory'.]
_An Elegy upon the most victorious King of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus._
[Killed at the battle of Lützen, Nov. 6, 1632.]
Like a cold fatal sweat which ushers death, My thoughts hang on me, and my lab'ring breath Stopp'd up with sighs, my fancy, big with woes, Feels two twinn'd mountains struggle in her throes,-- Of boundless sorrow one,--t' other of sin;-- For less let no one rate it, to begin Where honour ends.--In great Gustavus' flame, That style burnt out, and wasted to a name, Does barely live with us. As when the stuff That fed it, fails, the taper turns to snuff, 10 With this poor snuff, this airy shadow, we Of Fame and Honour must contented be; Since from the vain grasp of our wishes fled Their glorious substance is, now He is dead.
Speak it again, and louder, louder yet; Else, whilst we hear the sound, we shall forget What it delivers. Let hoarse rumour cry, Till she so many echoes multiply, Those may like num'rous witnesses confute Our unbelieving souls, that would dispute 20 And doubt this truth for ever. This one way Is left our incredulity to sway; To waken our deaf sense, and make our ears As open and dilated as our fears; That we may feel the blow, and feeling, grieve, At what we would not fain, but must believe. And in that horrid faith, behold the world From her proud height of expectation hurl'd, Stooping with him, as if she strove to have No lower centre now than Sweden's grave. 30
O could not all thy purchas'd victories Like to thy fame thy flesh immortalize? Were not thy virtue nor thy valour charms To guard thy body from those outward harms Which could not reach thy soul? could not thy spirit Lend somewhat which thy frailty might inherit From thy diviner part, that Death, nor Hate, Nor Envy's bullets e'er could penetrate? Could not thy early trophies in stern fight Torn from the Dane, the Pole, the Moscovite? 40 Which were thy triumph's seeds, as pledges sown, That when thy honour's harvest was ripe grown, With full-summ'd wing thou falcon-like wouldst fly, And cuff the Eagle in the German sky: Forcing his iron beak and feathers feel They were not proof 'gainst thy victorious steel. Could not all these protect thee? or prevail To fright that coward Death, who oft grew pale To look thee and thy battles in the face? Alas! they could not: Destiny gives place 50 To none; nor is it seen that princes' lives Can saved be by their prerogatives. No more was thine; who, clos'd in thy cold lead, Dost from thyself a mournful lecture read Of man's short-dated glory: learn, you kings, You are, like him, but penetrable things; Though you from demi-gods derive your birth You are at best but honourable earth: And howe'er sifted from that coarser bran, Which does compound and knead the common man, 60 Nothing's immortal, or from earth refin'd About you, but your office and your mind. Here then break your false glasses, which present You greater than your Maker ever meant: Make truth your mirror now, since you find all That flatter you, confuted by his fall.