Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 77, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 77, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: A state, a state, oh! Dungeon state indeed
Last Line: Whose strings toucht by this grace, will twang thy praise.
Subject(s): Bible; Puritans In Literature; Religion; Theology


A State, a State, Oh! Dungeon State indeed.
In which mee headlong, long agoe Sin pitcht:
As dark as Pitch, where Nastiness doth breed:
And Filth defiles: and I am with it ditcht.
A Sinfull State: This Pit no Water's in't.
A Bugbare State: as black as any inke.

I once sat singing on the Summit high
'Mong the Celestiall Coire in Musick Sweet
On highest bough of Paradisall joy,
Glory and Innocence did in mee meet.
I, as a Gold-Fincht Nighting Gale, tun'd ore
Melodious Songs 'fore Glorie's Palace Doore.

But on this bough I tuning Pearcht not long:
Th'Infernall Foe shot out a Shaft from Hell,
A Fiery Dart pilde with Sins poison strong:
That struck my heart, and down I headlong fell.
And from the Highest Pinicle of Light
Into this Lowest pit more darke than night.

A Pit indeed of Sin: No water's here:
Whose bottom's furthest off from Heaven bright,
And is next doore to Hell Gate, to it neer:
And here I dwell in sad and solemn night,
My Gold-Fincht Angell Feathers dapled in
Hells Scarlet Dy fat, blood red grown with Sin.

I in this Pit all Destitute of Light
Cram'd full of Horrid Darkness, here do Crawle
Up over head, and Eares, in Nauseous plight:
And Swinelike Wallow in this mire, and Gall:
No Heavenly Dews nor Holy Waters drill:
Nor Sweet Aire Brieze, nor Comfort here distill.

Here for Companions, are Fears, Heart-Achs, Grief
Frogs, Toads, Newts, Bats, Horrid Hob-Goblins, Ghosts:
Ill Spirits haunt this Pit: and no reliefe:
Nor Coard can fetch me hence in Creatures Coasts.
I who once lodgd at Heavens Palace Gate
With full Fledgd Angells, now possess this fate.

But yet, my Lord, thy golden Chain of Grace
Thou canst let down, and draw mee up into
Thy Holy Aire, and Glory's Happy Place.
Out from these Hellish damps and pit so low.
And if thy Grace shall do't, My Harp I'le raise,
Whose Strings toucht by this Grace, Will twang thy praise.





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