Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 16, by EDWARD TAYLOR



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 16, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou art, my lord, the king of glory bright
Last Line: The house of jacob, tun'de to thee, my king.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Thou art, my Lord, the King of Glory bright.
A glory't is unto the Angells flame
To be thy Harauld publishing thy Light
Unto the Sons of Men: and thy rich Name.
They are thy Subjects. Yea thy realm is faire.
Ore Jacobs House thou reignest: they declare.

Their brightest glory lies in thee their king.
My Glory is that thou my king maist bee.
That I may be thy Subject thee to sing
And thou may'st have thy kingdoms reign in mee.
But when my Lips I make thy Scepter Kiss
Unheartiness hatcht in my heart doth hiss.

Rich Reason, and Religion Good thus cry,
Be Subject, Soule: of Jacobs house be one.
Here is a king for thee, Whom Angells fly
To greet and honour sitting on his throne.
Sins mutiny, and marr his intrest brave.
My Pray'res grow Dead. Dead Corps laid in the grave.

The lowly Vine Grows fruitfull clusters, Rich.
The Humble Olive fat with oyle abounds.
But I like to the fiery Bramble, Which
Jumps at a Crown am but an empty Sound.
A guilded Cask of tawny Pride, and Gall,
With Veans of Venom o're my Spirits sprawle.

Like to the Daugh all glorious made when dresst
In feathers borrowed of other birds
Must need be King of birds: but is distresst,
When ery bird its feather hath, and Curbd
Doth glout, and slouch her Wings. Pride acts this part.
And base Hypocrisy. Oh! rotten heart!

Blesst Lord, my King, where is thy golden Sword?
Oh! Sheath it in the bowells of my Sin.
Slay my Rebellion, make thy Law my Word.
Against thine Enemies Without within.
Implant mee as a branch in Gods true vine
And then my grape will yield thy Cup rich wine.

Shall I now grafted in thy Olive tree
The house of Jacob, bramble berries beare?
This burdens me to thinke of, much more thee.
Breake off my black brire Claws: mee scrape, and pare.
Lord make my Bramble bush thy rosie tree.
And it will beare sweet Roses then for thee.

Kill my Hypocrisie, Pride Poison, Gall.
And make my Daugh thy Turtle Dove ore laid
With golden feathers: and my fruites then shall
Flock Dovelike to thy Lockers, oh! Choice trade.
My Cooing then shall be thy Musick in,
The House of Jacob, tun'de to thee, my King.





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