The Storm: to Mr. Christopher Brooke, from the Island Voyage with the Earl of Essex

The Storm: to Mr. Christopher Brooke, from the I

The Storm is a verse letter in which the poem's speaker addresses his friend Christopher Brooke, telling him that these lines, though drawn by a lesser hand than Hilliard's, will let him know part of the writer's passage by sea. The speaker reflects that a portrait or an account gains its worth from the judgment and affection of the one who receives it, since it is the office of friendship alone to impute excellence to what it reads. He then recounts England herself sighing forth a wind, sorrowful that her sons sought a foreign grave, since honour and misery share one face and way. This sigh, rising into the middle region of the air, met such resistance that it was thrown back down again, and, seeing the fleet wasting precious time in port, withering like prisoners held only for their fees, it turned mild and kissed the sails, coming sweet as food to a starved stomach, swelling the sails so that the men rejoiced as Sarah rejoiced at her own swelling womb. But this favorable wind proved as fleeting as countrymen who escort a friend one day's journey and then leave him. Afterward the south and west winds joined together like two distant kings uniting against a third to make war, driving the waves before them like a rolling trench. Sooner than the line could be read, the gale struck the sails like unforeseen shot, and what had first been called a gust was soon named a storm, and then a tempest. The speaker pities Jonas and curses those who woke him when the storm raged worst, since sleep is pain's easiest salve, performing every office of death except killing. When the speaker himself woke, he found he could no longer distinguish east, west, day, or night, and could only reason that if the world had lasted, it would now be day. Countless noises surrounded them, none namable except as thunder; lightning served as their only light, and rain fell as though the sun had first drunk up the sea. Some men lay coffined in their cabins, grieved that they were not yet dead though death seemed certain; others, like sin-burdened souls creeping from their graves at the last day, peeped from their cabins to ask fearfully for news, hearing answers as jealous husbands hear what they would rather not know. Others sat upon the hatches, staring with hideous gazing as if to frighten fear away. The speaker notes the ship's own sicknesses: the mast shaking as with an ague, the hold and waist clogged with a salt dropsy, the tacklings snapping like treble strings stretched too high, and rags dropping from the tattered sails as from a body hanged in chains a year past. Even the ordnance, set in place for defence, strained to break loose and escape. Pumping wore out the men for no gain, since the sea they threw out they only drew in again, and their hearing was deafened, so that even had they been able to hear, none knew what to say. The speaker declares that compared to these storms, death itself is but a qualm, hell somewhat lightsome, and the Bermudas calm. Darkness, described as light's elder brother, claims the world as its birthright and chases light away to heaven. All things become one indistinguishable form, a uniform deformity covering everything, so that unless God should pronounce another Fiat, there will be no more day. The speaker closes by observing that these furies are as long-lasting as they are violent, so that although his friend's absence starves him, he does not, in the midst of this storm, wish him present.

By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Dedicatory Poetry, Metaphysical Poetry, Narrative Poetry · 990 words

First lines

Thou which art I-'tis nothing to be so- / Thou which art still thyself, by these shalt know / Part of our passage; and a hand or eye / By Hilliard drawn is worth a history / By a worse painter made; and, without pride, / When by thy judgment they are dignified, / My lines are such. 'Tis the preeminence / Of friendship only to impute excellence. / England, to whom we owe what we be and have, / Sad that her sons did seek a foreign grave / -For Fate's or Fortune's drifts none can soothsay; / Honour and misery have one face, and way- / From out her pregnant entrails sigh'd a wind, / Which at th' air's middle marble room did find / Such strong resistance, that itself it threw / Downward again; and so when it did view / How in the port our fleet dear time did leese, / Withering like prisoners, which lie but for fees, / Mildly it kiss'd our sails, and fresh and sweet / -As to a stomach starved, whose insides meet, / Meat comes-it came; and swole our sails, when we / So joy'd, as Sarah her swelling joy'd to see. / But 'twas but so kind as our countrymen, / Which bring friends one day's way, and leave them then. / Then like two mighty kings, which dwelling far / Asunder, meet against a third to war, / The south and west winds join'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 assail; / And what at first was call'd a gust, the same / Hath now a storm's, anon a tempest's name. / Jonas, I pity thee, and curse those men / Who, when the storm raged most, did wake thee then. / Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil / All offices of death, except to kill. / But when I waked, I saw that I saw not; / I, and the sun, which should teach me, had forgot / East, west, day, night; and I could only say, / If th' world had lasted, now it had been day. / Thousands our noises were, yet we 'mongst all / Could none by his right name, but thunder, call. / Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more / Than if the sun had drunk the sea before. / Some coffin'd in their cabins lie, equally / Grieved that they are not dead, and yet must die; / And as sin-burden'd souls from grave will creep / At the last day, some forth their cabins peep, / And trembling ask, "What news? " and do hear so / As jealous husbands, what they would not know. / Some sitting on the hatches would seem there / With hideous gazing to fear away fear. / Then note they the ship's sicknesses, the mast / Shaked with an ague, and the hold and waist / With a salt dropsy clogg'd, and all our tacklings / Snapping, like too-too-high-stretch'd treble strings. / And from our tatter'd sails rags drop down so, / As from one hang'd in chains a year ago. / Even our ordnance, placed for our defence, / Strives to break loose, and 'scape away from thence. / Pumping hath tired our men, and what's the gain? / Seas into seas thrown, we suck in again; / Hearing hath deaf'd our sailors, and if they / Knew how to hear, there's none knows what to say. / Compared to these storms, death is but a qualm, / Hell somewhat lightsome, the Bermudas calm. / Darkness, light's eldest brother, his birthright / Claims o'er the world, and to heaven hath chasèd light. / All things are one, and that one none can be, / Since all forms uniform deformity / Doth cover; so that we, except God say / Another Fiat, shall have no more day. / So violent, yet long, these furies be, / That though thine absence starve me, I wish not thee.

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maritime · storm · voyage · danger · sea · adventure · heroic · metaphysical · wit · conceit · early-modern · narrative

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The Storm: to Mr. Christopher Brooke, from the Island Voyage with the Earl of Essex is listed on Textopian as a poem by John Donne, dated 1633 CE.

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