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Of Donne's other poems, the Funeral Elegies, Epistles, Satires, and what he calls his " Divine Poems," particularly the last named, we have little to say in the way of general praise, and but few extracts to offer. We shall, however, notice and illustrate each class briefly, in order that the reader may have a fair impression of the whole body of this writer's poetical works.

The Epistles of Donne we like less than any of his other poems, always excepting the religious ones. Not that they are without his usual proportion of subtle thinking, felicitous illustration, and skilful versification; but they are disfigured by more than his usual obscurity-by a harshness of style," that is to be found in few of his other poems, except the satires-by an extravagance of hyperbole in the way of compliment, that often amounts to the ridiculous-and by an evident want of sincerity, that is worse than all. To whomever they are addressed, all are couched in the same style of expression, and reach the same pitch of praise. Every one of his correspondents is, without exception, "wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best." It is as if his letters had been composed at leisure, and kept ready cut and dried till wanted.

Though it will not exactly bear quotation, perhaps the most poetical, as well as the most characteristic, of the Epistles is the imaginary one (the only one of that description) from Sappho to Philænis.

The following is finely thought and happily expressed. It is part of an Epistle to Sir Henry Wotton.

"Be, then, thine own home, and in thyself dwell;
Inn anywhere; continuance maketh hell.

And, seeing the snail, which everywhere doth roam,
Carrying his own house still, is still at home,—
Follow (for he is easy pac'd) this mail;

Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.
And in the world's sea do rest, like cork,-sleep
Upon the water's face, nor in the deep

Sink like a lead without a line; but as

Fishes glide, leaving no print where they pass,
Nor making sound; so closely thy course go;-
Let men dispute whether thou breathe, or no."

We can afford no other extract from the Epistles, although many most curious ones might be found; but pass on to the Funeral Elegies. All Donne's poems, even his best, with one or two exceptions, are laboured in the highest degree; and the Funeral Elegies are still more so than any of the others. They have all the faults of his style, and this one above all.

Still they abound in passages of great force, depth, and beauty; but none of them will bear extracting entire-at least, none which are properly included in this class. But there is one poem printed among these, which we shall extract the greater portion of, and which the reader will find to be written in a somewhat different style from that of almost all the others that we have quoted. There is a solemn and sincere earnestness about it, which will cause it to be read with great interest, even by those who may not be capable of appreciating, in detail, the rich and pompous flow of the verse, and the fine harmony of its music; the elegant simplicity of the language; and the extreme beauty of some of the thoughts and images.

The poem seems to have been addressed to his mistress, on the occasion of his taking leave of her, after her having offered to attend him on his journey in the disguise of a page. It is headed strangely enough.

'Elegy on his Mistress.

By our first strange and fatal interview-
By all desires which thereof did ensue—
By our long starving hopes-by that remorse
Which my words masculine persuasive force
Begot in thee-and by the memory

Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatened me,-
I calmly beg. But by thy father's wrath-
By all pains which want and divorcement hath-
I conjure thee; and all the oaths which I
And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy,
Here I unswear, and overswear them thus:
Thou shalt not love by ways so dangerous.
Temper, O fair love! love's impetuous rage;
Be my true mistress still-not my feign'd page.
I'll go, and by thy kind leave, leave behind
Thee-only worthy to nurse in my mind
Thirst to come back. O, if thou die before
My soul from other lands to thee shall soar,.

Thy else almighty beauty cannot move

Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love,
Nor tame wild Boreas' harshness: Thou hast read
How roughly he in pieces shivered

Fair Orithea, whom he swore he loved.

Fall ill or good, 'tis madness to have prov'd
Dangers unurged. Feed on this flattery,-

That absent lovers one in th' other be.

Dissemble nothing-not a boy-nor change
Thy body's habit, nor mind's ;-be not strange
To thyself only: All will spy in thy face

A blushing, womanly, discovering grace.

He then tells her what ills may befall her in the different countries through which she would have to follow him; and concludes:

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to

O, stay here-for, for thee
England is only a worthy gallery

To walk in expectation, till from thence
Our greatest king call thee to his presence.
When I am gone, dream me some happiness;
Nor let thy looks our long hid love confess;

Nor praise, nor dispraise me--nor bless, nor curse
Openly love's force; nor, in bed, fright thy nurse
With midnight startings,-crying out, 'Oh! oh!
Nurse! O, my love is slain! I saw him go
O'er the white Alps alone! I saw him, I,

Assail'd, fight, taken, stabb'd, bleed, fall, and die.'
Augur me better chance; except dread Jove
Think it enough for me t' have had thy love."

It only remains to speak of Donne's Satires; for his Divine Poems must be left to speak for themselves. General readers are probably acquainted with Donne chiefly as a writer of satires; and, in this character, they know him only through the medium of Pope; which is equivalent to knowing Homer only through the same medium. The brilliant and refined modern attempted to give his readers an idea of Donne, by changing his roughness into smoothness, and polishing down his force into point. In fact, he altered Donne into Popewhich was a mere impertinence. Each is admirable in his way-quite enough so to make it impossible to change either, with advantage, into a likeness of any other.

Donne's Satires are as rough and rugged as the unhewn stones that have just been blasted from their native quarry ; and they must have come upon the readers at whom they were levelled, with the force and effect of the same stones flung from the hand of a giant. The following detached character is the only specimen we have left ourselves room to give of them. It strikes us as being nearly the perfection of this kind of writing. He says that, for once in his life, going to court, "Towards me did run

A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun

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E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came;
A thing which would have posed Adam to name.
Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies--
Than Afric monsters-Guianaes rarities-
Stranger than strangers. One who for a Dane
In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain,
If he had lived then; and without help dies
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise.
One whom the watch at noon scarce lets go by;
One to whom th' examining justice sure would cry,
'Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?'

His clothes were strange, tho' coarse-and black, tho' bare;
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been

Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)
Become tuff-taffety; and our children shall

See it plain rash a while, then not at all.

The thing hath travell'd, and saith, speaks all tongues;
And only knoweth what to all states belongs.
Made of the accents and best phrase of these,
He speaks one language. If strange meats displease,
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste;
But pedants' motley tongue, soldiers' bombast,
Mountebanks' drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,
Are strong enough preparatives to draw

Me to bear this. Yet I must be content

With his tongue, in his tongue called compliment.

He names me, and comes to me. I whisper, God!
How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod,
(This fellow) chuseth me? He saith, Sir,

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I love your judgement-whom do you prefer
For the best linguist?' And I sillily

Said, that I thought, Calepine's Dictionary.

Nay, but of men, most sweet sir ?'-Beza then,

Some Jesuits, and two reverend men

Of our two academies, I named. Here

He stopt me, and said-' Nay, your apostles were
Pretty good linguists, and so Panurge was,
Yet a poor gentleman. All these may pass
By travel.' Then, as if he would have sold
His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told,
That I was fain to say- If you had lived, sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter
To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood.'
He adds, If of court-life you knew the good,

You would leave loneness.' I said, 'Not alone
My loneness is, but Spartans' fashion.

To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;
No more can princes' courts (tho' there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue."

He, like a high-stretch'd lutestring, squeak'd, 'O, sir,
"Tis sweet to talk of kings! At Westminster,
(Said I) the man that keeps the Abbey-tombs,
And, for his price, doth, with whoever comes,
Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk,
From king to king, and all their kin can walk.

Your ears shall hear nought but kings-your eyes meet
Kings only the way to it is King street?"

He smack'd, and cry'd- He's base, mechanic, coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.N
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine?—as you see,
I have but one, sir-look, he follows me.

Certes, they're neatly cloath'd. I of this mind am,
Your only wearing is your grogoram.'

'Not so, sir. I have more.' Under this pitch
He would not fly. I chaf'd him. But as itch
Scratch'd into smart-and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge hurts worse-so I (fool!) found
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness
He to another key his style doth dress,

And asks, What news? I tell him of new plays;
He takes my hands, and as a still which stays
A semibreve 'twixt each drop, he (niggardly,
As loth to enrich me so) tells many a lie-

More than ten Holinsheds, or Halls, or Stowes-
Of trivial household trash he knows. He knows

When the queen frown'd or smil'd, and he knows what

A subtle statesman may gather from that.

He knows who loves whom; and who by poison

Hastes to an office's reversion.

He knows who hath sold his land, and now doth beg

A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egg

Shells to transport. Shortly boys shall not play

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At spancounter or blow-point, but shall pay

Toll to some courtier. And (wiser than all us)
He knows what lady is not painted."

We had intended to close this paper with a few examples of the most glaring faults of Donne's style; but the reader

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