Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 24, by EDWARD TAYLOR



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 24, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Was there a palace of pure gold, all ston'de
Last Line: I'le be the golden trumpet of thy praise.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Was there a Palace of Pure Gold, all Ston'de
And pav'de with Pearles, whose Gates Rich Jaspers were,
And Throne a Carbuncle, whose King Enthronde
Sat on a Cushion all of Sunshine Cleare;
Whose Crown a Bunch of Sun Beams was: I should
Prize such as in his favour shrine me Would.

Thy Milke white Hand, my Glorious Lord, doth this:
It opes this Gate, and me Conducts into
This Golden Palace whose rich Pavement is
Of Pretious Pearles: and to this King also.
Thus Thron'de, and Crown'd: whose Words are 'bellisht all
With brighter Beams, than e're the Sun let fall.

But oh! Poore mee, thy sluggish Servant, I
More blockish than a block, as blockhead, stand.
Though mine Affections Quick as Lightning fly
On toys, they Snaile like move to kiss thy hand.
My Coal-black doth thy Milke white hand avoide,
That would above the Milky Way me guide.

What aim'st at, Lord? that I should be so Cross.
My minde is Leaden in thy Golden Shine.
Though all o're Spirit, when this dirty Dross
Doth touch it with its smutting leaden lines.
What shall an Eagle t'catch a Fly thus run?
Or Angell Dive after a Mote ith'Sun?

What Folly's this? I fain would take, I thinke,
Vengeance upon myselfe: But I Confess,
I can't. Mine Eyes, Lord, shed no Tears but inke.
My handy Works, are Words, and Wordiness.
Earth's Toyes ware Knots of my Affections, nay,
Though from thy Glorious Selfe they're Stoole away.

Oh! that my heart was made thy Golden Box
Full of Affections, and of Love Divine
Knit all in Tassles, and in True-Love Knots,
To garnish o're this Worthy Worke of thine.
This Box and all therein more rich than Gold,
In sacred Flames, I to thee offer would.

With thy rich Tissue my poore Soule array:
And lead me to thy Fathers House above.
Thy Graces Storehouse make my Soule I pray.
Thy Praise shall then ware Tassles of my Love.
If thou Conduct mee in thy Fathers Wayes,
I'le be the Golden Trumpet of thy Praise.





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