Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 10, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 10, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Stupendious love! All saints astonishment!
Last Line: For thy rich blood, which is my drink-indeed.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Stupendious Love! All Saints Astonishment!
Bright Angells are black Motes in this Suns Light.
Heav'ns Canopy the Paintice to Gods tent
Can't Cover't neither with its breadth, nor height.
Its Glory doth all Glory else out run,
Beams of bright Glory to't are motes i'th'sun.

My Soule had Caught an Ague, and like Hell
Her thirst did burn: she to each spring did fly,
But this bright blazing Love did spring a Well
Of Aqua-Vitae in the Deity,
Which on the top of Heav'ns high Hill out burst
And down came running thence t'allay my thirst.

But how it came, amazeth all Communion.
Gods onely Son doth hug Humanity,
Into his very person. By which Union
His Humane Veans its golden gutters ly.
And rather than my Soule should dy by thirst,
These Golden Pipes, to give me drink, did burst.

This Liquour brew'd, thy sparkling Art Divine
Lord, in thy Chrystall Vessells did up tun,
(Thine Ordinances,) which all Earth o're shine
Set in thy rich Wine Cellars out to run.
Lord, make thy Butlar draw, and fill with speed
My Beaker full: for this is drink indeed.

Whole Buts of this blesst Nectar shining stand
Lockt up with Saph'rine Taps, whose splendid Flame
Too bright do shine for brightest Angells hands
To touch, my Lord. Do thou untap the same.
Oh! make thy Chrystall Buts of Red Wine bleed
Into my Chrystall Glass this Drink-Indeed.

How shall I praise thee then? My blottings Jar
And wrack my Rhymes to pieces in thy praise.
Thou breath'st thy Vean still in my Pottinger
To lay my thirst, and fainting spirits raise.
Thou makest Glory's Chiefest Grape to bleed
Into my cup: And this is Drink-Indeed.

Nay, though I make no pay for this Red Wine,
And scarce do say I thank-ye-for't; strange thing!
Yet were thy silver skies my Beer bowle fine
I finde my Lord, would fill it to the brim.
Then make my life, Lord, to thy praise proceed
For thy rich blood, which is my Drink-Indeed.





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