Death Be Not Proud — John Donne (1572 — 1631)
John Donne shifted dramatically in his life: The early Donne was the passionate
lover and rebel of sense; the later Donne, consumed with the Finished Work of
Jesus Christ and Church doctor who reveled in spirit and truth.
Rising up and abandoning his fleshly pursuits, Donne demonstrates the
surprising savvy elemental and essential to this first and greatest of the
metaphysical poets, unique intellects whom essayist and critic Samuel Johnson
deemed "The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together;
nature and art are ransacked for illustrations, comparisons, and
allusions".
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 pictures 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 art 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.
John Donne shifted dramatically in his life: The early Donne was the passionate
lover and rebel of sense; the later Donne, consumed with the Finished Work of
Jesus Christ and Church doctor who reveled in spirit and truth.
Here, Donne has taken a Romantic form and transformed a transcendental struggle
of life and death into a quiet ending, one in which death "shall be no
more."
Rising up and abandoning his fleshly pursuits, Donne demonstrates the
surprising savvy elemental and essential to this first and greatest of the
metaphysical poets, unique intellects whom essayist and critic Samuel Johnson
deemed "The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together;
nature and art are ransacked for illustrations, comparisons, and
allusions".
Where Johnson spied cumbersome force, Donne's style dazzles with soft and calm
brilliance, even in the cascade of calumnies against the great
"equalizer" Death. "Fate, chance, kings and desperate men"
are yoked together, not in bondage but in freedom, in their power to inflict
and manipulate death at will. The panorama of life and legacy has overcome
death time and again, yet Donne expounds the expansive exploitation of death in
one verse.
It is the will of man that
triumphs over the cessation of life, the will to believe in what cannot be
seen, to dismiss "poor death" as mere "pictures" compared
to the substance of life infused with the Spirit.
Death,
be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
No bragging rights for Death, according to the
poet, who in the first two lines of his sonnet denounces in apostrophe the end
of life, “not proud”, “not so”.
poet, who in the first two lines of his sonnet denounces in apostrophe the end
of life, “not proud”, “not so”.
“Might and dreadful” two terms which describe the
sovereign lord, do not belong nor proper confer any majesty on death. “Thou are
not so.” A simple statement, a certain indictment, and the poet has dispensed
with Death ponderous, no preposterous for the previous fears His presence has
impressed on mankind.
sovereign lord, do not belong nor proper confer any majesty on death. “Thou are
not so.” A simple statement, a certain indictment, and the poet has dispensed
with Death ponderous, no preposterous for the previous fears His presence has
impressed on mankind.
For
those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
In this neat
conceit, Death himself is fooled, limited by the surface, unaware of the
substance of his failure to slay who in believing on the death of Him whom He
hath sent, will never die. “Thou think’st thou dost overthrow”, the monarch of
destruction is an impoverished exile, removed forever more from the room of
imperious prominence. “Poor death” is now the object of pity, the last enemy
that will be thrown into the lake of fire.
conceit, Death himself is fooled, limited by the surface, unaware of the
substance of his failure to slay who in believing on the death of Him whom He
hath sent, will never die. “Thou think’st thou dost overthrow”, the monarch of
destruction is an impoverished exile, removed forever more from the room of
imperious prominence. “Poor death” is now the object of pity, the last enemy
that will be thrown into the lake of fire.
From rest and sleep, which but thy
pictures 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.
pictures 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.
The poet
compares death not to a savage desecration, nor a fatal, final battle, but
instead an extension of any easy rest, one from which a man receives “much
pleasure”. “”Rest and sleep” as “pictures”, the poet condescendingly remarks,
brings death into the secondary status of demeaning dimension. Men’s bones
receive a welcome respite, and their soul the final delivery from this earth to
glorious paradise. Death has nothing to brag about, for death is put in
comparison with rest, with sleep, with regenerative silence. Death does not
catch the prey of frail men, but instead sets men free, and without fail.
compares death not to a savage desecration, nor a fatal, final battle, but
instead an extension of any easy rest, one from which a man receives “much
pleasure”. “”Rest and sleep” as “pictures”, the poet condescendingly remarks,
brings death into the secondary status of demeaning dimension. Men’s bones
receive a welcome respite, and their soul the final delivery from this earth to
glorious paradise. Death has nothing to brag about, for death is put in
comparison with rest, with sleep, with regenerative silence. Death does not
catch the prey of frail men, but instead sets men free, and without fail.
Thou
art 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?
art 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?
Death as
slave, a unique trope, one which the poet fashions with wit and wisdom. “Fate”
is far greater the force than the end of life which menaces many men. “Chance”
is a game, a mere trifle, toys which men gamble with, whether ending their
fortunes or their lives. “Kings” put evil rebels, madmen, threats to the state
to death. No one escapes the justice, the rule, the righteousness of the king,
who even in passing, his dynasty passes on: “The King is dead. Long live the
King!” is proclaimed from death to life, where the children of yesteryear
become the rulers of today and the progenitors of the future. Death, mere
bystander, ushers in the transitions of power.
slave, a unique trope, one which the poet fashions with wit and wisdom. “Fate”
is far greater the force than the end of life which menaces many men. “Chance”
is a game, a mere trifle, toys which men gamble with, whether ending their
fortunes or their lives. “Kings” put evil rebels, madmen, threats to the state
to death. No one escapes the justice, the rule, the righteousness of the king,
who even in passing, his dynasty passes on: “The King is dead. Long live the
King!” is proclaimed from death to life, where the children of yesteryear
become the rulers of today and the progenitors of the future. Death, mere
bystander, ushers in the transitions of power.
As for the
company of death, the poet outlines simply “poison”, natural or otherwise,
which can slay a man in minutes or in hours. Poisons which have ended kings and
queens, eradicated vermin and other pestilences, even drugs which prosper and
prolong life began as poisons which in improper does kill, and quickly.
company of death, the poet outlines simply “poison”, natural or otherwise,
which can slay a man in minutes or in hours. Poisons which have ended kings and
queens, eradicated vermin and other pestilences, even drugs which prosper and
prolong life began as poisons which in improper does kill, and quickly.
“War”, the
vain ragings of craven men, the battlefields of glory, war covers a range of
reigns and rights, ponderings and possibilities. Death is not even a scavenger,
but a frustrated element pushed to the limit, expected to do the bidding of the
common folk and the ruling elite, the final weapon which man overcomes even in
being overcome. In war, where men die for country, they live forever in the
memory of their countrymen, mocking at Death who has aided their eternity.
vain ragings of craven men, the battlefields of glory, war covers a range of
reigns and rights, ponderings and possibilities. Death is not even a scavenger,
but a frustrated element pushed to the limit, expected to do the bidding of the
common folk and the ruling elite, the final weapon which man overcomes even in
being overcome. In war, where men die for country, they live forever in the
memory of their countrymen, mocking at Death who has aided their eternity.
“Sickness”
is the necessary pause for men who cannot contain their passions, for the growing
race of human beings who run the race with no thought to running out. Sickness
is the crucial agent that brings a long and much-needed arrest to those who
inflict harm on their bodies, who resist the bounds of natural appetite.
Sickness also is the final sign, the moments when a man who departs knows well
that his time is short, and so the stultifying stops of pains and coughs at
least buy him time to say “good-bye”.
is the necessary pause for men who cannot contain their passions, for the growing
race of human beings who run the race with no thought to running out. Sickness
is the crucial agent that brings a long and much-needed arrest to those who
inflict harm on their bodies, who resist the bounds of natural appetite.
Sickness also is the final sign, the moments when a man who departs knows well
that his time is short, and so the stultifying stops of pains and coughs at
least buy him time to say “good-bye”.
God’s
creation, too, mocks openly the weakened powers of death. “Poppy or charms can
make us sleep as well.” “As well”communicates “in comparison” and “in
addition”, gaily sporting with the super-abounding grace of God’s natural
wonders, which man has contrived to ease man’s pain and quicken his rest.
“Poppy”is a joyful word, a colorful, childlike flower winding away with
careless wonder in the wind. “Charms”, whether magical or romantic, are
bewitching and bewailing, at least for the one who has fallen beneath their
spell. Sometimes, the simple charm of a smiling face suffices more, traced with
the soft face of a poppy gladly handed to a loved one. And so, Death is outdone
once again!
creation, too, mocks openly the weakened powers of death. “Poppy or charms can
make us sleep as well.” “As well”communicates “in comparison” and “in
addition”, gaily sporting with the super-abounding grace of God’s natural
wonders, which man has contrived to ease man’s pain and quicken his rest.
“Poppy”is a joyful word, a colorful, childlike flower winding away with
careless wonder in the wind. “Charms”, whether magical or romantic, are
bewitching and bewailing, at least for the one who has fallen beneath their
spell. Sometimes, the simple charm of a smiling face suffices more, traced with
the soft face of a poppy gladly handed to a loved one. And so, Death is outdone
once again!
One short sleep past, we wake
eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.
eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.
“Sleep”
appears again, but not in conjunction with rest; instead, rest leads to life
eternal, where man will no longer need to rest, fashioned as he will be in a
body that does not age, that will never flag or fail. Death is further
impoverished, ruined, left desolate. Man in eternal life witnesses death
succumbing to himself. “Death shall be no more,” the poet proudly yet dulcetly
declares, not even bothering to speak to death. So certain, so final, so enriched
with vigor, the poet then whispers, yet loudly of the import of the paradox:
“Death, thou shalt die.”
appears again, but not in conjunction with rest; instead, rest leads to life
eternal, where man will no longer need to rest, fashioned as he will be in a
body that does not age, that will never flag or fail. Death is further
impoverished, ruined, left desolate. Man in eternal life witnesses death
succumbing to himself. “Death shall be no more,” the poet proudly yet dulcetly
declares, not even bothering to speak to death. So certain, so final, so enriched
with vigor, the poet then whispers, yet loudly of the import of the paradox:
“Death, thou shalt die.”
Death dies,
or a dying death? What a wicked end, a cruel joke, a maxim which maximizes the
power of the man reborn, trusting in eternal God to infuse him with eternal
life, forever inoculating him from the subtle war, poison, and sickness all.
Fate is fated to disappear, chance has become certainty, kings of limited
renown are dethroned, and desperate men now hope. “Death, thou shalt die.”
Death no longer has any pride, any esteem, like a witless cowboy who has shot
himself in the foot, now powerless and wounded, and by his own stroke.
or a dying death? What a wicked end, a cruel joke, a maxim which maximizes the
power of the man reborn, trusting in eternal God to infuse him with eternal
life, forever inoculating him from the subtle war, poison, and sickness all.
Fate is fated to disappear, chance has become certainty, kings of limited
renown are dethroned, and desperate men now hope. “Death, thou shalt die.”
Death no longer has any pride, any esteem, like a witless cowboy who has shot
himself in the foot, now powerless and wounded, and by his own stroke.