Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 4, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 4, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: My silver chest a sparke of love up locks
Last Line: And sharons rose shall be my rose, and crown.
Subject(s): Flowers; Puritans In Literature; Roses


My Silver Chest a Sparke of Love up locks:
And out will let it when I can't well Use.
The gawdy World me Courts t'unlock the Box,
A motion makes, where Love may pick and choose.
Her Downy Bosom opes, that pedlars Stall,
Of Wealth, Sports, Honours, Beauty, slickt up all.

Love pausing on't, these Clayey Faces she
Disdains to Court; but Pilgrims life designs,
And Walkes in Gilliads Land, and there doth see
The Rose of Sharon which with Beauty shines.
Her Chest Unlocks; the Sparke of Love out breaths
To Court this Rose: and lodgeth in its leaves.

No flower in Garzia Horti shines like this:
No Beauty sweet in all the World so Choice:
It is the Rose of Sharon sweet, that is
The Fairest Rose that Grows in Paradise.
Blushes of Beauty bright, Pure White, and Red
In Sweats of Glory on Each Leafe doth bed.

Lord lead me into this sweet Rosy Bower:
Oh! Lodge my Soul in this Sweet Rosy bed:
Array my Soul with this sweet Sharon flower:
Perfume me with the Odours it doth shed.
Wealth, Pleasure, Beauty Spirituall will line
My pretious Soul, if Sharons Rose be mine.

The Blood Red Pretious Syrup of this Rose
Doth all Catholicons excell what ere.
Ill Humours all that do the Soule inclose
When rightly usd, it purgeth out most clear.
Lord purge my Soul with this Choice Syrup, and
Chase all thine Enemies out of my land.

The Rosy Oyle, from Sharons Rose extract
Better than Palma Christi far is found.
Its Gilliads Balm for Conscience when she's wrackt
Unguent Apostolorum for each Wound.
Let me thy Patient, thou my Surgeon bee.
Lord, with thy Oyle of Roses Supple mee.

No Flower there is in Paradise that grows
Whose Virtues Can Consumptive Souls restore
But Shugar of Roses made of Sharons Rose
When Dayly usd, doth never fail to Cure.
Lord let my Dwindling Soul be dayly fed
With Sugar of Sharons Rose, its dayly Bread.

God Chymist is, doth Sharons Rose distill.
Oh! Choice Rose Water! Swim my Soul herein.
Let Conscience bibble in it with her Bill.
Its Cordiall, ease doth Heart burns Causd by Sin.
Oyle, Syrup, Sugar, and Rose Water such.
Lord, give, give, give; I cannot have too much.

But, oh! alas! that such should be my need
That this Brave Flower must Pluckt, stampt, squeezed bee,
And boyld up in its Blood, its Spirits sheed,
To make a Physick sweet, sure, safe for mee.
But yet this mangled Rose rose up again
And in its pristine glory, doth remain.

All Sweets, and Beauties of all Flowers appeare
In Sharons Rose, whose Glorious Leaves out vie
In Vertue, Beauty, Sweetness, Glory Cleare,
The Spangled Leaves of Heavens cleare Chrystall Sky.
Thou Rose of Heaven, Glory's Blossom Cleare
Open thy Rosie Leaves, and lodge mee there.

My Dear-Sweet Lord, shall I thy Glory meet
Lodg'd in a Rose, that out a sweet Breath breaths.
What is my way to Glory made thus sweet,
Strewd all along with Sharons Rosy Leaves.
I'le walk this Rosy Path: World fawn, or frown
And Sharons Rose shall be my Rose, and Crown.





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