John Donne: The Calm/The Storme to Christopher Brooke

THE CALM. by John Donne OUR storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth 'suage. The fable is inverted, and far more A block afflicts, now, than a stork before. Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us ; In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. As steady as I could wish my thoughts were, Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there, The sea is now, and, as these isles which we Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be. As water did in storms, now pitch runs out ; As lead, when a fired church becomes one spout. And all our beauty and our trim decays, Like courts removing, or like ended plays. The fighting-place now seamen's rags supply ; And all the tackling is a frippery. No use of lanthorns ; and in one place lay Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday. Earth's hollownesses, which the world's lungs are, Have no more wind than th' upper vault of air. We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover, But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover. Only the calenture together draws Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes' maws ; And on the hatches, as on altars, lies Each one, his own priest and own sacrifice. Who live, that miracle do multiply, Where walkers in hot ovens do not die. If in despite of these we swim, that hath No more refreshing than a brimstone bath ; But from the sea into the ship we turn, Like parboil'd wretches, on the coals to burn. Like Bajazet encaged, the shepherds' scoff, Or like slack-sinew'd Samson, his hair off, Languish our ships. Now as a myriad Of ants durst th' emperor's loved snake invade, The crawling gallies, sea-gulls, finny chips, Might brave our pinnaces, now bed-rid ships. Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain, Or to disuse me from the queasy pain Of being beloved and loving, or the thirst Of honour or fair death, out-push'd me first, I lose my end ; for here, as well as I, A desperate may live, and coward die. Stag, dog, and all which from or towards flies, Is paid with life or prey, or doing dies. Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay A scourge, 'gainst which we all forget to pray. He that at sea prays for more wind, as well Under the poles may beg cold, heat in hell. What are we then ?  How little more, alas, Is man now, than, before he was, he was ? Nothing for us, we are for nothing fit ; Chance, or ourselves, still disproportion it. We have no power, no will, no sense ; I lie, I should not then thus feel this misery. Source : Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol II. E. K. Chambers, ed. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 4-6. The Storme To Mr. Christopher Brooke, (from the Island Voyage with the Earl of Essex.) Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be soe) Thou which art still thy selfe, by these shalt know Part of our passage; and, a hand, or eye By Hilliard drawne, is worth a history, By a worse painter made; and (without pride) When by thy judgment they are dignifi'd, My lines are such. 'Tis the preheminence Of friendship onely to'impute excellence. England, to whom we'owe, what we be, and have, Said that her sonnes did seeke a forraine grave (For, Fate's, or Fortune's drifts none can soothsay, Honour and misery have one face, and way) From out her pregnant intrailes sigh'd a winde, Which at th'ayres middle marble roome did finde Such strong resistance, that it selfe it threw Downeward againe ; and so when it did view How in the port, our fleet deare time did leese, Withering like prisoners, which lye but for fees, Mildly it kist our sailes, and, fresh and sweet As, to a stomach sterv'd, whose insides meete, Meate comes, it came; and swole our sailes, when wee So joyd, as Sara'her swelling joy'd to see. But 'twas but so kinde, as our countrimen, Which bring friends one dayes way, and leave them then. Then like two mighty Kings, which dwelling farre Asunder, meet against a third to warre, The South and West winds joyn'd, and, as they blew, Waves like a rolling trench before them threw. Sooner than you read this line, did the gale, Like shot, not fear'd, till felt, our sails assaile; And what at first was call'd a gust, the same Hath now a stormes, anon a tempests name. Jonas, I pitty thee, and curse those men Who, when the storm rage'd most, did wake thee then. Sleepe is paines easiest salve, and doth fulfill All offices of death, except to kill. But when I wakt, I saw, that I saw not. I, and the Sunne, which should teach mee'had forgot East, West, day, night, and I could onely say, If'the world had lasted, now it had been day. Thousands our noyses were, yet wee'mongst all Could none by his right name, but thunder, call: Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more Than if the Sunne had drunke the sea before; Some coffin'd in their cabins lye, 'equally Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet must die. And as sin-burd'ned soules from grave will creepe, At the last day, some forth their cabins peepe: And tremblingly'aske what newes, and doe heare so, Like jealous husbands, what they would not know. Some sitting on the hatches, would seeme there, With hideous gazing to feare away feare. Then note they the ship's sicknesses, the Mast Shak'd with an ague, and the Hold and Wast With a salt dropsie clog'd, and all our tacklings Snapping, like too- high-stretched treble strings. And from our totterd sailes, ragges drop downe so, As from one hang'd in chaines a year agoe. Even our Ordnance plac'd for our defence, Strive to breake loose, and scape away from thence. Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gaine? Seas into seas throwne, we suck in againe; Hearing hath deaf'd our saylers: and if they Knew how to heare, there's none knowes what to say. Compar'd to these stormes, death is but a qualme, Hell somewhat lightsome, and the'Bermuda calme. Darknesse, lights elder brother, his birth-right Claims o'er this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light. All things are one, and that one none can be, Since all formes uniforme deformity Doth cover, so that wee, except God say Another Fiat, shall have no more day. So violent, yet long these furies bee, That though thine absence starve me,'I wish not thee. John Donne Try Beta   Log in / create account toolboxnavigation Main Page Community portal Central discussion Recent changes Random page Random author Random book Help Donate What links here Related changes Special pages Permanent link Cite this page print/export Create a book Download as PDF Printable version

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