But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread;

And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.
So, whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow

From us, and from our cares: now 'tis not so.

That love hath not attain'd the highest degree
Which is still diligent lest others see.
Except our loves at this noon stay,

We shall new shadows make the other way.
As the first were made to blind

Others, these, which come behind,

Still work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,

To me thou, falsly, thine,

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow larger all the day:

But oh, love's day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing, or full constant light;
And his short minute, after noon, is night."

"The Expiration.

So, so,-break off this last lamenting kiss,
Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away;
Turn thou, ghost, that way, and let me turn this,
And let ourselves benight our happiest day.
We ask none leave to love; nor will we owe
Any so cheap a death as saying, go!—

Go! and if that word have not quite killed thee,
Ease me with death, by bidding me go too.
Or, if it have, let my word work on me,

And a just office on a murderer do:

Except it be too late to kill me so~~

Being double dead,-going, and bidding go!"

The following piece, entitled "The Funeral," is fantastical and far-fetched to be sure; but it is very fine nevertheless. The comparison of the nerves and the braid of hair, and anticipating similar effects from each, could never have entered the thoughts of any one but Donne; still less could any one have made it tell as he has done. The piece is

altogether an admirable and most interesting example of his style.

"Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm,

Nor question much,

That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,
For 'tis my outward soul;

Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone,
Will leave this to controul

And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For, if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall

Through every part,

Can tie those parts, and make me one, of all,—
Those hairs, which upward grow, and strength and art

Have from a better brain,

Can better do it; except she meant that I

By this should know my pain;

As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me;
For since I am

Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into others' hands these reliques came.
As 'twas humility

To afford to it all that a soul can do,

That, since

So 'tis some bravery,

you

would have none of me, I bury some of you."

As a specimen of Donne's infinite fullness of meaning, take a little poem, called "The Will;" almost every line of which would furnish matter for a whole treatise in modern times.

"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 the 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 receiv'd can be,
Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

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 tho' 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 counsels I 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.

Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo

The world by dying, because love dies too.

Then all your beauties will be no more worth

Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth.

And all your graces no more use shall have

Than a sun-dial in a grave.

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

Love her who doth neglect both me and thee,

To invent and practice this one way to annihilate all three."

The following (particularly the first stanza) seems to us to express even more than it is intended to express; which is very rarely the case with the productions of this writer. The love expressed by it is a love for the passion excited, rather than the object exciting it; it is a love that lives by "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy," rather than by hungering after fresh food-that broods, like the stock dove, over its own voice, and listens for no other-that is all sufficient to itself, and (like virtue) its own reward.

"I never stooped so low as they
Which on an eye, cheek, lip, can prey;
Seldom to them which soar no higher
Than virtue, or the mind to admire ;
For sense and understanding may
Know what gives fuel to their fire:
My love, though silly, is more brave;
For may I miss, whene'er I crave,
If I know yet what I would have.

If that be simply perfectest
Who can by no way be exprest
But negatives, my love is so.
To all, which all love, I say no.
If any, who deciphers best

What we know not, (ourselves) can know,
Let him teach me that nothing. This
As yet my ease and comfort is,-
Though I speed not, I cannot miss."

What follows is in a different style, and it offers a singular specimen of the perverse ingenuity with which Donne sometimes bandies a thought about (like a shuttle-cock) from one hand to the other, only to let it fall to the ground at last.

"The Prohibition.

Take heed of loving me:

At least remember I forbade it thee.

Not that I shall repair my unthrifty waste

Of breath and blood upon thy sighs and tears,

By being to thee then what thou wast to me;
But so great joy at once our life outwears.
Then, lest thy love by my death frustrate be,
If thou love me, take heed of loving me.

Take heed of hating me,

Or too much triumph in the victory.
Not that I shall be mine own officer,
And hate again with hate retaliate;
But thou wilt lose the style of conqueror,
If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate.
Then, lest my being nothing lessen thee,
If thou hate me, take heed of hating me.

Yet, love and hate me too;

So these extremes shall ne'er their office do:
Love me, that I may die the gentler way;
Hate me, because thy love's too great for me':
Or let these two, themselves, not me, decay:
So shall I live thy stage, not triumph be.
Then, lest thy love hate, and me thou undo,
Oh let me live, yet love and hate me too."

The following, in common with many other whole pieces and detached thoughts of this writer, has been imitated by later love-poets in proportion as it has not been read.