Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 11, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 11, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Eternal love burnish in glory thick
Last Line: Of grace in me thy praise perfum'd out poure.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Eternall Love burnish in Glory thick,
Doth butt, and Center in thee, Lord, my joy.
Thou portrai'd art in Colours bright, that stick
Their Glory on the Choicest Saints, Whereby
They are thy Pictures made. Samson Exceld
Herein thy Type, as he thy foes once queld.

An Angell tells his mother of his birth.
An Angell telleth thine of thine. Ye two
Both Males that ope the Womb in Wedlock Kerfe
Both Nazarited from the Womb up grew.
He after pitchy night a Sunshine grows
And thou the Sun of Righteousness up rose.

His Love did Court a Gentile spouse, and thine
Espous'd a Gentile to bebride thyselfe.
His Gentile Bride apostatizd betime.
Apostasy in thine grew full of Wealth.
He sindgd the Authours of't with Foxes tails.
And foxy men by thee on thine prevaile.

The Fret now rose. Thousands upon him poure.
An asses Jaw his javling is, whereby
He slew a Thousand, heap by heap that hour.
Thou by weake means makest many thousands fly.
Thou ribbon like wast platted in his Locks
And hence he thus his Enemies did box.

He's by his Friend betray'd, for money sold,
Took, bound, blindfolded, made a May game Flout
Dies freely with great sinners, when they hold
A Sacred Feast. With arms stretcht greatly out,
Slew more by death, than in his Life he slew.
And all such things, my Lord, in thee are true.

Samson at Gaza went to bed to sleep.
The Gazites watch him and the Soldiers thee.
He Champion stout, at midnight rose full deep.
Took Gaza's Gate on's back away went hee.
Thou rose didst from thy Grave and also tookst
Deaths Doore away throwing it off o'th'hooks.

Thus all the shine that Samson wore is thine,
Thine in the Type. Oh. Glorious One, Rich glee.
Gods Love hath made thee thus. Hence thy bright shine
Commands our Love to bow thereto the Knee.
Thy Glory chargeth us in Sacrifice
To make our Hearts and Love to thee to rise.

But woe is me! my heart doth run out to
Poor bits of Clay: or dirty Gayes embrace.
Doth leave thy Lovely Selfe for loveless show:
For lumps of Lust, nay sorrow and disgrace.
Alas, poore Soule! a Pardon, Lord, I crave.
I have dishonourd thee and all I have.

Be thou my Samson, Lord, a Rising Sun,
Of Righteousness unto my Soule, I pray.
Conquour my Foes. Let Graces Spouts all run
Upon my Soule O're which thy sunshine lay.
And set me in thy Sunshine, make each flower
Of Grace in me thy Praise perfum'd out poure.





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