Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 18, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 18, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Astonisht stand, my soule; why dost not start
Last Line: Altaschath michtam, in seraphick tune.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Astonisht stand, my Soule; why dost not start
At this surprizing Sight shewn here below?
Oh! let the twitch made by my bouncing Heart
Gust from my breast this Enterjection, Oh!
A Sight so Horrid, sure its Mercies Wonder
Rocks rend not at't, nor Heavens split asunder.

Souls Charg'd with Sin, Discharge at God, beside
Firld up in Guilt, Wrapt in Sins Slough, and Slime.
Wills wed to Wickedness, Hearts Stonifide
Flinty Affections, Conscience Chalybdine
Flooding the World with Horrid Crimes, arise
Daring Almighty God Contemptuouswise.

Hence Vengeance rose with her fierce Troops in Buff,
Soul-piercing Plagues, Heart-Aching Griefs, and Groans,
Woes Pickled in Revenges Powdering Trough:
Pain fetching forth their Proofs out of the boanes.
Doth all in Flames of Fire surround them so
Which they can ne're o'recome, nor undergo.

In this sad Plight the richest Beauty Cleare
That th'bravest Flower, that bud was big with, wore,
Did glorify those Cheeks, whose Vissage were
Marr'd more than any mans, and Form spoild more.
Oh! Beauty beautifull, not toucht with vice!
The fairest Flower in all Gods Paradise!

Stept in, and in its Glory 'Counters all.
And in the Belly of this Dismall Cloud,
Of Woes in Pickle is gulpht up, whose Gall
He dranke up quite. Whose Claws his Face up plow'd.
Yet in these Furrows sprang the brightest Shine
That Glory's Sun could make, or Love Enshrine.

Then Vengeance's Troops are routed, Pickled Woe
Heart-aching Griefes, Pains plowing to the boanes,
Soul piercing Plagues, all Venom do foregoe.
The Curse now Cures, though th'Griefe procureth groans.
As th'Angry Bee doth often lose her Sting,
The Law was Cursless made in Cursing him.

And now his shining Love beams out its rayes
My Soul, upon thy Heart to thaw the same:
To animate th'Affections till they blaze;
To free from Guilt, and from Sins Slough, and Shame.
Open thy Casement wide, let Glory in,
To Guild thy Heart to be an Hall for him.

My Breast, be thou the ringing Virginalls:
Ye mine Affections, their sweet Golden Strings,
My Panting Heart, be thou for Stops, and Falls:
Lord, let thy quick'ning Beams dance o're the Pins.
Then let thy Spirit this sweet note resume,
ALTASCHATH MICHTAM, in Seraphick Tune.





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