Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 95, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 95, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What shall a mote up to a monarch rise?
Last Line: By thy good spirits melody to thee.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


What shall a Mote up to a Monarch rise?
An Emmet match an Emperor in might?
If Princes make their personall Exercise
Betriming mouse holes, painting with delight!
Or hanging Hornets nests with rich attire
All that pretende to Wisdome would admire.

The Highest Office and Highst Officer
Expende on lowest intrest in the world
The greatest Cost and wealthiest treasure far
Twould shew mans wisdom's up in folly furld.
That Humane Wisdom's hatcht within the nest
Of addle brains which wisdom ne'er possesst.

But blush, poor Soule, at th'thought of such a thought
Touching my Lord, the King of Kings most bright
As acting thus, for us all over nought,
Worse than poor Ants, or Spider catchers mite
Who goes away t'prepare's a place most cleare
Whose Shine o're shines the shining Sunshine here.

Ye Heavens wonder, shall your maker come
To Crumbs of Clay, bing'd all and drencht in Sin
To stop the gap with Graces boughs, defray
The Cost the Law transgresst, doth on us bring?
Thy head layst down under the axe on th'block
That for our Sins did off the same there lop:

But that's not all. Thou now didst sweep Death's Cave
Clean with thy hand: and leavest not a dust
Of Flesh, or Bone that there th'Elect dropt have,
But bringst out all, new buildst the Fabrick just,
(Having the Scrowle of Gods Displeasure clear'd)
Bringst back the Soule putst in its tent new rear'd.

But thats not all: Now from Deaths realm, erect,
Thou gloriously gost to thy Fathers Hall:
And pleadst their Case preparst them place well dect
All with thy Merits hung. Blesst Mansions all.
Dost ope the Doore lockt fast 'gainst Sins that so
These Holy Rooms admit them may thereto.

But thats not all. Leaving these dolefull roomes
Thou com'st and takst them by the hands, Most High,
Dost them translate out from their Death bed toombs,
To th'rooms prepar'd filld with Eternall joy.
Them Crownst and thronst there, there their lips be shall
Pearld with Eternall Praises that's but all.

Lord Let me bee one of these Crumbs of thine.
And though Im dust adorn me with thy graces
That though all flect with Sin, thy Grace may shine
As thou Conductst me to these furnisht places.
Make mee, thy Golden trumpet, sounded bee,
By thy Good Spirits melody to thee.





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