Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 110, by EDWARD TAYLOR



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 110, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: The angells sung a carole at thy birth
Last Line: Burr'ing thy grave in thy sepulcher's reech.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


The Angells sung a Carole at thy Birth,
My Lord, and thou thyselfe didst sweetly sing
An Epinicioum at thy Death, on Earth
And order'st thine, in memory of this thing
Thy Holy Supper, closing it at last
Up with an Hymn, and Choakst the foe thou hast.

This Feast thou madst in memory of thy death
Which is disht up most graciously: and towers
Of reeching vapours from thy Grave (Sweet breath)
Aromatize the Skies. That sweetest Showers
Richly perfumed by the Holy Ghost,
Are rained thence upon the Churches Coast.

Thy Grave beares flowers to dress thy Church withall.
In which thou dost thy Table dress for thine.
With Gospell Carpet, Chargers, Festivall
And Spirituall Venison, White Bread and Wine
Being the Fruits thy Grave brings forth and hands
Upon thy Table where thou waiting standst.

Dainties most rich, all spiced o're with Grace,
That grow out of thy Grave do deck thy Table
To entertain thy Guests, thou callst, and place
Allowst, with welcome, (and this is no Fable)
And with these Guests I am invited to't
And this rich banquet makes me thus a Poet.

Thy Cross planted within thy Coffin beares
Sweet Blossoms and rich Fruits, Whose steams do rise
Out of thy Sepulcher and purge the aire
Of all Sins damps and fogs that Choake the Skies.
This Fume perfumes Saints hearts as it out peeps
Ascending up to bury thee in th'reechs.

Joy stands on tiptoes all the while thy Guests
Sit at thy Table, ready forth to sing
Its Hallilujuhs in sweet musicks dress
Waiting for Organs to imploy herein.
Here matter is allowd to all, rich, high,
My Lord, to tune thee Hymns melodiously.

Oh! make my heart thy Pipe: the Holy Ghost
The Breath that fills the same and Spiritually.
Then play on mee thy pipe that is almost
Worn out with piping tunes of Vanity.
Winde musick is the best if thou delight
To play the same thyselfe, upon my pipe.

Hence make me, Lord, thy Golden Trumpet Choice
And trumpet thou thyselfe upon the same
Thy heart enravishing Hymns with Sweetest Voice.
When thou thy Trumpet soundst, thy tunes will flame.
My heart shall then sing forth thy praises sweet
When sounded thus with thy Sepulcher reech.

Make too my Soul thy Cittern, and its wyers
Make my affections: and rub off their rust
With thy bright Grace. And screw my Strings up higher
And tune the same to tune thy praise most Just.
Ile close thy Supper then with Hymns, most sweet
Burr'ing thy Grave in thy Sepulcher's reech.





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