An Elegy Upon The Death Of The Dean Of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne Poem Rhyme Scheme

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Can we not force from widow'd poetry	A
Now thou art dead great Donne one elegy	A
To crown thy hearse Why yet dare we not trust	B
Though with unkneaded dough bak'd prose thy dust	B
Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flower	C
Of fading rhetoric short liv'd as his hour	C
Dry as the sand that measures it should lay	D
Upon thy ashes on the funeral day	D
Have we no voice no tune Didst thou dispense	E
Through all our language both the words and sense	E
'Tis a sad truth The pulpit may her plain	F
And sober Christian precepts still retain	F
Doctrines it may and wholesome uses frame	G
Grave homilies and lectures but the flame	G
Of thy brave soul that shot such heat and light	H
As burnt our earth and made our darkness bright	H
Committed holy rapes upon our will	I
Did through the eye the melting heart distil	I
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach	J
As sense might judge what fancy could not reach	J
Must be desir'd forever So the fire	C
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire	K
Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath	L
Glow'd here a while lies quench'd now in thy death	L
The Muses' garden with pedantic weeds	M
O'erspread was purg'd by thee the lazy seeds	M
Of servile imitation thrown away	D
And fresh invention planted thou didst pay	D
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age	N
Licentious thefts that make poetic rage	N
A mimic fury when our souls must be	A
Possess'd or with Anacreon's ecstasy	A
Or Pindar's not their own the subtle cheat	O
Of sly exchanges and the juggling feat	O
Of two edg'd words or whatsoever wrong	P
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue	Q
Thou hast redeem'd and open'd us a mine	R
Of rich and pregnant fancy drawn a line	R
Of masculine expression which had good	S
Old Orpheus seen or all the ancient brood	T
Our superstitious fools admire and hold	U
Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold	U
Thou hadst been their exchequer and no more	V
They each in other's dust had rak'd for ore	V
Thou shalt yield no precedence but of time	W
And the blind fate of language whose tun'd chime	W
More charms the outward sense yet thou mayst claim	G
From so great disadvantage greater fame	G
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit	X
Our stubborn language bends made only fit	X
With her tough thick ribb'd hoops to gird about	Y
Thy giant fancy which had prov'd too stout	Y
For their soft melting phrases As in time	W
They had the start so did they cull the prime	W
Buds of invention many a hundred year	Z
And left the rifled fields besides the fear	Z
To touch their harvest yet from those bare lands	A2
Of what is purely thine thy only hands	A2
And that thy smallest work have gleaned more	V
Than all those times and tongues could reap before	V
	-
But thou art gone and thy strict laws will be	A
Too hard for libertines in poetry	A
They will repeal the goodly exil'd train	F
Of gods and goddesses which in thy just reign	F
Were banish'd nobler poems now with these	B2
The silenc'd tales o' th' Metamorphoses	B2
Shall stuff their lines and swell the windy page	N
Till verse refin'd by thee in this last age	N
Turn ballad rhyme or those old idols be	A
Ador'd again with new apostasy	B2
	-
Oh pardon me that break with untun'd verse	B2
The reverend silence that attends thy hearse	B2
Whose awful solemn murmurs were to thee	A
More than these faint lines a loud elegy	A
That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence	B2
The death of all the arts whose influence	B2
Grown feeble in these panting numbers lies	B2
Gasping short winded accents and so dies	B2
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand	C2
In th' instant we withdraw the moving hand	C2
But some small time maintain a faint weak course	B2
By virtue of the first impulsive force	B2
And so whilst I cast on thy funeral pile	D2
Thy crown of bays oh let it crack awhile	D2
And spit disdain till the devouring flashes	B2
Suck all the moisture up then turn to ashes	B2
	-
I will not draw the envy to engross	B2
All thy perfections or weep all our loss	B2
Those are too numerous for an elegy	A
And this too great to be express'd by me	A
Though every pen should share a distinct part	E2
Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art	E2
Let others carve the rest it shall suffice	B2
I on thy tomb this epitaph incise	B2
	-
Here lies a king that rul'd as he thought fit	X
The universal monarchy of wit	X
Here lie two flamens and both those the best	F2
Apollo's first at last the true God's priest	G2

Thomas Carew

An Elegy Upon The Death Of The Dean Of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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