Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?

How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment none would heed; Man's doom was link'd, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

V.

It is the calm and silent night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite

The darkness - charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had wornTo it a happy name is given;

For in that stable lay, new-born,

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

JOHN DONNE.

DONNE, JOHN, an eminent English clergyman and poet; born in London in 1573; died there in 1631. He studied at Oxford and Cambridge, being designed for the legal profession, but in his nineteenth year he abandoned law for theology. In 1610 he wrote the "Pseudo-Martyr," which procured him the favor of James I., who persuaded him to take holy orders, and about 1614 made him one of his chaplains. He distinguished himself as a preacher, and was later made Dean of St. Paul's. Donne wrote sermons, devotional and controversial treatises, poetical satires, elegies and epigrams. A complete edition of his works was issued in 1839, under the editorial care of Dean Alford. A collection of his sermons, with a memoir, was issued in 1897 by Augustus Jessopp. Donne was the first and Cowper the second of the school which Johnson denominated "metaphysical" poets, who labored after conceits and novel turns of thought.

THE SOUL'S FLIGHT TO HEAVEN.

...

...

THINK in how poor a prison thou didst lie;
But think that death hath now enfranchised thee! . .
And think this slow-paced Soul, which late did cleave
To a body, and went but by that body's leave,
Twenty, perchance, or thirty miles a day,

Dispatches in a minute all the way

"Twixt heaven and earth! She stays not in the air,
To look what meteors there themselves prepare;

She carries no desire to know, nor sense,
Whether the air's middle region be intense
For the element of fire, she doth not know
Whether she passed by such a place or no;
She baits not at the moon, nor cares to try
Whether in that new world men live and die;
Venus retards her not to inquire how she
Can-being one star-Hesper and Vesper be.
He that charmed Argus's eyes, sweet Mercury,
Works not on her who now is grown all eye;

Who, if she meet the body of the Sun,

Goes through, not staying till her course be run;
Who finds in Mars's camp no corps of guard;
Nor is by Jove, nor by his Father barred;
But, ere she can consider how she went,
At once is at, and through, the firmament:
And, as these stars were but so many beads

Strung on one string, speed undistinguished leads
Her through those spheres, as through those beads a string,
Whose quick succession makes it still one thing;
As doth the pith which, lest our bodies slack,
Strings fast the little bones of neck and back,
So by the Soul doth Death string Heaven and Earth.

SONNET TO DEATH.

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful; for thou art not so:

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not
-poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow.
And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery!

Thou 'rt slave to Fate, Chance, Kings, and desperate Men, And dost with Poison, War, and Sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better, than thy stroke: Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

ELEGY ON MISTRESS ELIZABETH DRURY.

SHE who had here so much essential joy,
As no chance could distract, much less destroy;
Who with God's presence was acquainted so
(Hearing and speaking to him) as to know
His face in any natural stone or tree
Better than when in images they be;
Who kept, by diligent devotion

God's image in such reparation

Within her heart, that what decay was grown
Was her first Parents' fault, and not her own;

Who being solicited to any act,

Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract;
Who by a faithful confidence was here

Betrothed to God, and now is married there;
Whose twilights were more clear than our midday;
Who dreamed devoutlier than most use to pray;
Who, being here filled with grace, yet strove to be,
Both where more grace and more capacity
At once is given. She to heaven is gone,
Who made this world in some proportion
A heaven, and here became unto us all
Joy (as our joys admit) essential.

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING.

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go;
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now - and some say, No;

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeath
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;

My tongue to Fame; to Ambassadors mine ears;
To Women, or the Sea, my tears;

Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,

By making me serve her who had twenty more,

That I should give to none but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the Planets give:

My truth to them who at Court do live;

Mine ingenuity and openness

To Jesuits; to Buffoons my pensiveness;
My silence to any who abroad have been;
My money to a Capuchin ;

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me
To love there where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have no good capacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics;
All my good works unto the Schismatics
Of Amsterdam; my best civility
And courtship to an University;

My modesty I give to Soldiers bare;

My patience let Gamesters share;

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me

Love her that holds my love disparity,

Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my Friends; mine industry to Foes;

To Schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness,

My sickness to Physicians, or Excess;

To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ;

And to my Company my wit.

Thou, Love, by making me adore

Her who begot this love in me before,

Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.

To him for whom the Passing-bell next tolls

I give my physic-books; my written rolls

Of moral councils I do to Bedlam give;

My brazen medals unto them which live

In Want of Bread; to them which pass among

All Foreigners, my English tongue.

Thou, Love, by making me love one

Who thinks her friendship a fit portion

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.