Like to the Marigold, I blushing close My golden blossoms when thy sun goes down: Moist'ning my leaves with Dewy Sighs, half frose By the nockturnall Cold, that hoares my Crown. Mine apples ashes are in apple shells, And dirty too: strange and bewitching spells! When, Lord, mine Eye doth spie thy Grace to beame They Mediatoriall glory in the shine, Out spouted so from Adams typick streame, And Emblemiz'd in Noahs pollisht shrine: Thine theirs outshines so far it makes their glory In brightest Colours, seem a smoaky story. But when mine Eye full of these beams doth cast Its rayes upon my dusty essence thin, Impregnate with a Sparke Divine defac'de, All candi[e]d o're with Leprosie of Sin, Such Influences on my Spirits light, Which them as bitter gall, or Cold ice smite. My brissled sins hence do so horrid peare, None but thyselfe, (and thou deck't up must bee In thy Transcendent glory sparkling cleare) A Mediator unto God for mee. So high they rise, Faith scarce can toss a Sight Over their head upon thyselfe to light. Is't possible such glory, Lord, ere should Center its Love on me, Sins Dunghill else? My Case up take? make it its own? who would Wash with his blood my blots out? Crown his shelfe Or Dress his golden Cupboard with such ware? This makes my pale facde Hope almost despare. Yet let My Titimouses Quill suck in Thy Graces milk Pails some small drop: or Cart A Bit or Splinter of some Ray, the wing Of Grace's sun sprindg'd out, into my heart: To build there Wonders Chappell where thy Praise Shall be the Psalms sung forth in gracious layes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A WATERFOWL by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER by THOMAS CAMPBELL THE MOSS ROSE by FRIEDRICH ADOLF KRUMMACHER THE TARRY BUCCANEER by JOHN MASEFIELD ITYLUS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE SONNET: 3 by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE RUBY THROAT by RUTH BUTLER BROWN THE SALLE MONTESQUIEU; A PARISIAN REMINISCENCE by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |