Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 27, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 27, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh! Wealthy theam! Oh! Feeble phancy I
Last Line: In whom all fulness dwells, doth dwell in mee.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Oh! Wealthy Theam! Oh! Feeble Phancy: I
Must needs admire, when I recall to minde,
That's Fulness, This it's Emptiness, though spy
I have no Flowring Brain thereto inclinde.
My Damps do out my fire. I cannot, though
I would Admire, finde heate enough thereto.

What shall I say? Such rich rich Fullness would
Make stammering Tongues speake smoothly, and Enshrine
The Dumb mans mouth with Silver Streams like gold
Of Eloquence making the Aire to Chime.
Yet I am Tonguetide stupid, sensless stand,
And Drier drain'd than is my pen I hand.

Oh! Wealthy Box: more Golden far than Gold
A Case more Worth than Wealth: a richer Delph,
Than Rubies; Cabbinet, than Pearles here told
A Purse more glittering than Glory 'tselfe
A Golden Store House of all Fulness: Shelfe,
Of Heavenly Plate. All Fulness in thyselfe.

Oh! Godhead Fulness! There doth in thee flow
All Wisdoms Fulness; Fulness of all Strength:
Of Justice, Truth, Love, Holiness also
And Graces Fulness to its upmost length
Do dwell in thee. Yea and thy Fathers Pleasure.
Thou art their Cabbinet, and they thy Treasure.

All Office Fulness with all Office Gifts
Imbossed are in thee, Whereby thy Grace,
Doth treat both God, and Man, bringst up by hifts
Black Sinner and White Justice to imbrace.
Making the Glory of Gods Justice shine:
And making Sinners to Gods glory Climbe.

All Graces Fulness dwells in thee, from Whom
The Golden Pipes of all Convayance ly,
Through which Grace to our Clayie Panchins Come.
Fullness of Beauty, and Humanity.
Oh! Glorious Flow're, Glory, and Sweetness splice,
In thee to Grace, and sweeten Paradise!

But, oh! the Fathers Love! herein most vast!
Angells engrave't in brightest Marble, t'see
This Flower that in his Bosom sticks so fast,
Stuck in the Bosom of such stuffe as wee
That both his Purse, and all his Treasure thus,
Should be so full, and freely sent to us.

Were't not more than my heart can hold, or hord,
Or than my Tongue can tell; I thus would pray,
Let him in Whom all Fulness Dwells, dwell, Lord
Within my Heart: this Treasure therein lay.
I then shall sweetly tune thy Praise, When hee
In Whom all Fulness dwells, doth dwell in mee.





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