There can, I think, be little doubt
that it is to her, and neither to his wife nor the mistresses of his
earlier, wandering fancy, that these lines, conventional in theme
but given an amazing _timbre_ by the impulse of Donne's subtle and
passionate mind, were addressed.
that it is to her, and neither to his wife nor the mistresses of his
earlier, wandering fancy, that these lines, conventional in theme
but given an amazing _timbre_ by the impulse of Donne's subtle and
passionate mind, were addressed.
John Donne
Herbert.
Nothing
could surpass the strain of intellectual and etherealized compliment
in which he addresses the Countess. If lines like the following are
not pure poetry, they haunt some quaint borderland of poetry to which
the polished felicities of Pope's compliments are a stranger. If not
pure fancy, they are not mere ingenuity, being too intellectual and
argumentative for the one, too winged and ardent for the other:
Should I say I liv'd darker then were true,
Your radiation can all clouds subdue;
But one, 'tis best light to contemplate you.
You, for whose body God made better clay,
Or tooke Soules stuffe such as shall late decay,
Or such as needs small change at the last day.
This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,
Covering discovers your quicke Soule; that we
May in your through-shine front your hearts thoughts see.
You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne
To our late times, the use of specular stone,
Through which all things within without were shown.
Of such were Temples; so and such you are;
_Beeing_ and _seeming_ is your equall care,
And _vertues_ whole _summe_ is but _know_ and _dare_.
The long poem dedicated to the same lady's beauty,
You have refin'd me
is in a like dazzling and subtle vein. Those addressed to Mrs.
Herbert, notably the letter
Mad paper stay,
and the beautiful _Elegie_
No Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnall face,
are less transcendental in tone but bespeak an even warmer admiration.
Indeed it is clear to any careful reader that in the poems addressed
to both these ladies there is blended with the respectful flattery of
the dependant not a little of the tone of warmer feeling permitted to
the 'servant' by Troubadour convention. And I suspect that some poems,
the tone of which is still more frankly and ardently lover-like, were
addressed to Lady Bedford and Mrs. Herbert, though they have come to
us without positive indication.
The title of the subtle, passionate, sonorous lyric _Twicknam Garden_,
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,
points to the person addressed, for Twickenham Park was the residence
of Lady Bedford from 1607 to 1618, and Donne's intimacy with her seems
to have begun in or about 1608.
There can, I think, be little doubt
that it is to her, and neither to his wife nor the mistresses of his
earlier, wandering fancy, that these lines, conventional in theme
but given an amazing _timbre_ by the impulse of Donne's subtle and
passionate mind, were addressed. But if _Twicknam Garden_ was written
to Lady Bedford, so also, one is tempted to think, must have been _A
Nocturnall upon S. Lucies Day_, for Lucy was the Countess's name,
and the thought, feeling, and rhythm of the two poems are strikingly
similar.
But the _Nocturnall_ is a sincerer and profounder poem than _Twicknam
Garden_, and it is more difficult to imagine it the expression of a
conventional sentiment. Mr. Gosse, and there is no higher authority
when it comes to the interpretation of Donne's character and mind,
rightly, I think, suggests that the death of the lady addressed is
assumed, not actual, but he connects the poem with Donne's earlier and
troubled loves. 'So also in a most curious ode, the _Nocturnal_ . . . ,
amid fireworks of conceit, he calls his mistress dead and protests
that his hatred has grown cold at last. ' But I can find no note of
bitterness, active or spent, in the song. It _might_ have been written
to Ann More. It is a highly metaphysical yet sombre and sincere
description of the emptiness of life without love. The critics have,
I think, failed somewhat to reckon with this stratum in Donne's songs,
of poems Petrarchian in convention but with a Petrarchianism coloured
by Donne's realistic temper and impatient wit. Any interpretation of
so enigmatical a poem must be conjectural, but before one denied too
positively that its subject was Lady Bedford--perhaps her illness
in 1612--one would need to answer two questions, how far could a
conventional passion inspire a strain so sincere, and what was Donne's
feeling for Lady Bedford and hers for him?
Poetry is the language of passion, but the passion which moves the
poet most constantly is the delight of making poetry, and very little
is sufficient to quicken the imagination to its congenial task.
could surpass the strain of intellectual and etherealized compliment
in which he addresses the Countess. If lines like the following are
not pure poetry, they haunt some quaint borderland of poetry to which
the polished felicities of Pope's compliments are a stranger. If not
pure fancy, they are not mere ingenuity, being too intellectual and
argumentative for the one, too winged and ardent for the other:
Should I say I liv'd darker then were true,
Your radiation can all clouds subdue;
But one, 'tis best light to contemplate you.
You, for whose body God made better clay,
Or tooke Soules stuffe such as shall late decay,
Or such as needs small change at the last day.
This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,
Covering discovers your quicke Soule; that we
May in your through-shine front your hearts thoughts see.
You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne
To our late times, the use of specular stone,
Through which all things within without were shown.
Of such were Temples; so and such you are;
_Beeing_ and _seeming_ is your equall care,
And _vertues_ whole _summe_ is but _know_ and _dare_.
The long poem dedicated to the same lady's beauty,
You have refin'd me
is in a like dazzling and subtle vein. Those addressed to Mrs.
Herbert, notably the letter
Mad paper stay,
and the beautiful _Elegie_
No Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one Autumnall face,
are less transcendental in tone but bespeak an even warmer admiration.
Indeed it is clear to any careful reader that in the poems addressed
to both these ladies there is blended with the respectful flattery of
the dependant not a little of the tone of warmer feeling permitted to
the 'servant' by Troubadour convention. And I suspect that some poems,
the tone of which is still more frankly and ardently lover-like, were
addressed to Lady Bedford and Mrs. Herbert, though they have come to
us without positive indication.
The title of the subtle, passionate, sonorous lyric _Twicknam Garden_,
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,
points to the person addressed, for Twickenham Park was the residence
of Lady Bedford from 1607 to 1618, and Donne's intimacy with her seems
to have begun in or about 1608.
There can, I think, be little doubt
that it is to her, and neither to his wife nor the mistresses of his
earlier, wandering fancy, that these lines, conventional in theme
but given an amazing _timbre_ by the impulse of Donne's subtle and
passionate mind, were addressed. But if _Twicknam Garden_ was written
to Lady Bedford, so also, one is tempted to think, must have been _A
Nocturnall upon S. Lucies Day_, for Lucy was the Countess's name,
and the thought, feeling, and rhythm of the two poems are strikingly
similar.
But the _Nocturnall_ is a sincerer and profounder poem than _Twicknam
Garden_, and it is more difficult to imagine it the expression of a
conventional sentiment. Mr. Gosse, and there is no higher authority
when it comes to the interpretation of Donne's character and mind,
rightly, I think, suggests that the death of the lady addressed is
assumed, not actual, but he connects the poem with Donne's earlier and
troubled loves. 'So also in a most curious ode, the _Nocturnal_ . . . ,
amid fireworks of conceit, he calls his mistress dead and protests
that his hatred has grown cold at last. ' But I can find no note of
bitterness, active or spent, in the song. It _might_ have been written
to Ann More. It is a highly metaphysical yet sombre and sincere
description of the emptiness of life without love. The critics have,
I think, failed somewhat to reckon with this stratum in Donne's songs,
of poems Petrarchian in convention but with a Petrarchianism coloured
by Donne's realistic temper and impatient wit. Any interpretation of
so enigmatical a poem must be conjectural, but before one denied too
positively that its subject was Lady Bedford--perhaps her illness
in 1612--one would need to answer two questions, how far could a
conventional passion inspire a strain so sincere, and what was Donne's
feeling for Lady Bedford and hers for him?
Poetry is the language of passion, but the passion which moves the
poet most constantly is the delight of making poetry, and very little
is sufficient to quicken the imagination to its congenial task.
