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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 42 by EDWARD TAYLOR

Poet Analysis

First Line: I FAIN WOULD PRIZE THEE, LORD, BUT FINDE THE PRICE
Last Line: IF THOU WILT TUNE IT TO THY PRAISE IN MEE.
Subject(s): PURITANS IN LITERATURE;
I fain would prize thee, Lord, but finde the price
Of Earthy things to rise so high in mee
That I no pretious matter in my choice
Can finde within my heart to offer thee.
The price of worldly toyes is grown so deare,
They pick my purse. Thy Gaine is little there.

But oh! if thou one Sparke of heavenly fire
Wilt but drop on my hearth; its holy flame
Will burn my trash up. And refin'de desire
Will rise to thee in th'Curlings of the same,
As Pillars of Perfumeing incense rise,
And Surges bright of Glory, 'bove the Skies.

Oh! that my Soul was Walled round about
With Orient Pearle fetcht out of holy Mine
And made a Castle, where thy Graces stoute
Keep garison against my foes and thine.
Then they each peeping thought sent Scout of Sin
Would quickly take, and gibbit up therein.

But oh! the Swarms of enemies to thee
(Bold Sawceboxes) make in these quarters spoile,
Make insurrection 'gainst the motions free
Of thy good Spirit: Lord, come, scoure the Ile
Of these and quarter here each flourishing grace.
The Whole will then be in a Wealthy Case.

Thou for this end, a Body hadst preparde,
Where Sin ne'er set a foot, nor shewd its head
But ev'ry grace was in it, and Well far'de.
Whose fruite, Lord, let into my heart be shed.
Then grace shall grace my Soule, my Soule shall thee
Begrace, and shall thy gracefull Palace bee.

Thy Body is a Building all like mine,
In Matter, Form, in Essence, Properties.
Yet Sin ne'er toucht it, Grace ne'er ceast in't'shine.
It, though not Godded, next to th'Godhead lies.
This honour have I, more than th'Angells bright.
Thy Person, and my Nature do Unite.

Oh! Thanks, my Lord, accept this dusty thing:
If I had better, thou should better have.
I blush, because I can no better bring:
The best I do possess, I for thee save.
Wash in thy blood, my gift till white it bee:
And made acceptable to God by thee.

In humble wise I thee implore to make
Me, what thou, and thy Father ever love.
Empt me of Sin: Fill mee with Grace: and take
Up while I'me here, my heart to thee above.
My Soule shall sing Thanksgiving unto thee,
If thou wilt tune it to thy praise in mee.



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