Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 31, by EDWARD TAYLOR



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 31, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Its said h ************* doth enjoy
Last Line: With praise * * * * * * * * * tun'de on my bell.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


Its said H * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * doth enjoy
A Tree of Gold whose Root is deemd t'have birth
At Centre of the Earth whose Spirits fly
Ore all its body blossoming on the earth.
Leaves dance and Fruits grow on its twigs and limbs.
That make a golden Smile on Spanish Kings.

Yet this rich vegitable tree of Gold
Is but a Toade Stoole bowre compar'd to thee
My blessed Lord, whose tent of Humane mould
Shines like Gods Paradise, Where springs the tree
Of Pure, Pure Love that doth thy friends enfold
In richer Robes than all those Leaves of gold.

Thy Love-Affection, rooted in the Soyle,
Of Humane Nature, springing up all ore
With Sanctifying Grace, of brightest file
Brings Loads of Love to sinfull man all gore.
Here is greate Love, greaten'd by influences
To which thy Godhead to the same dispenses.

No Spirits ever yet were founde within
The golden Tree of Humane nature, bud,
Or blossom such a Love, or Lovely thing
As this thy nature doth so greate so good.
The Plant's set in a Soile Pure, faultless, stronge,
Its fruite sores to the highst pitch, Good, Greate, and Longe.

There is no Sin can touch this Lovely Love.
Its Holy, with a perfect Holiness.
Its grown unto the highst Degree, above
All Stuntedness, or stately Stintedness.
The Soile is faultless, and doth give its Strength.
The Plant doth beare its fruite of largest length.

This Love in thee most pure, and perfect stands
A Relative, and hath its object here
Which it befriends with all good things, and hands
In holy wayes to heavenly Glory cleare.
Oh! happy such as with it are befriended:
With perfect Love, to perfect bliss they're tended.

Make me thy Friend: Befriend me with thy Love.
Here's cloaths more rich than Silk or Cloth of gold.
I'le in the Circuite of thy Friendship moove
So thy Warm Love enspire mine Organs would.
My Garden will give sweet, and Lovely Flowers
If thou distill thereon thy Love in Showres.

Lord, let thy Sunshine-Love my Dial grace.
Then what a Clock it is, it will display.
The glory of the Sunshine on it's Face
Will take the light and tell the time of Day.
My Hammer then shall greet this Shine as well
With praise * * * * * * * * * tun'de on my bell.





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