Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: THE SOUL BEMOANING SORROW ..., by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: THE SOUL BEMOANING SORROW ..., by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Alas! My soule, product of breath divine
Last Line: If not, I'st not be worser than I bee.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Alas! my Soule, product of Breath Divine,
For to illuminate a Lump of Slime.
Sad Providence! Must thou below thus tent,
In such a Cote as strangles with ill sent?
Or in such sensuall Organs make thy stay
Which from thy noble end do make thee stray?
My nobler part, why dost thou laquy to
The Carnall Whynings of my senses so?
What? thou become a Page, a Peasant, nay,
A Slave unto a Durty Clod of Clay!
Why should the Kirnell bring such Cankers forth
To please the shell, as will devour them both?
Why didst thou thus thy Milkwhite Robes defile
With Crimson spots of scarlet sins most vile?

My Muddy Tent, Why hast thou done so ill
To Court, and kiss my Soule, yet kissing kill?
Why didst thou Whyning, egg her thus away
Thy sensuall Appetite to satisfy?
Art thou so safe, and firm a Cabinet
As though thou soaking lie in nasty wet,
And in all filthy Puddles: yet though thin
Can ne're drench through to stain the Pearle within?
Its no such thing: Thou'rt but a Cawle-wrought Case.
And when thou fallst, thou foulst its shining face.
Or but her mudwalld Lid which, wet by sin
Diffuseth all in her that it shuts in.
One stain stains both, when both in one Combine.
A Musty Cask doth marre rich Malmsy Wine.

Woe's mee! my mouldring Heart! What must I do?
When is my moulting time to shed my woe?
Oh! Woefull fall! what fall from Heavenly bliss
To th'bottom of the bottomless Abyss?
Above an angry God! Below, black-blew
Brimstony flames of hell where Sinners rue!
Behinde, a Traile of Sins! Before appeare
An Host of Mercies that abused were!
Without a Raging Divell! and Within
A Wracking Conscience Galling home for Sin!
What Canst not finde one Remedy, my Soule,
On Mercies File for mee? Oh! Search the Rowle.
What freeze to death under such melting means,
Of Grace's Golden, Life Enliv'ning Beams?
What? not one Hope? Alas! I hope there's some.
Although I know not in what way it come.
Although there is no hope within my minde
I'le force Hope's Faculty, till Hope I finde.
Some glimmerings of Hope, I hope to spy
In Mercies Golden Stacks, or Remedy.
I therefore am Resolv'd a search to make,
And of the Pious Wise some Counsill take.
Ile then in Pensiveness myselfe apply
To them in hope, but yet halfe hopelessly.
Perhaps these thoughts are blessed motions, though
From whence they are, as yet I do not know.
And if from Christ, Oh! then thrice Happy mee.
If not, I'st not be worser than I bee.





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