The Poems of Edward Taylor :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rich Temple Fair! Rich Festivalls my Lord,
Thou makest to entertain thy Guests most dresst
In dishes up by SEVENS which afford
Rich Mystery under their brims expresst.
Which to discover clearly, make the brain
Of most men wring, their kirnells to obtain.

117

Each Seventh Day a Sabbath Gracious Ware.
A Seventh Week a yearly Festivall.
The Seventh Month a Feast nigh, all, rich fare.
The Seventh Yeare a Feast Sabbaticall.
And when seven years are seven times turnd about
A Jubilee. Now turn their inside out.

What Secret Sweet Mysterie under the Wing
Of this so much Elected number lies?
What Vean can e're Divine? Or Poet sing?
Doubtless most Rich. For such shew God most Wise.
I will adore the same although my quill
Can't hit the String that's tun'd by such right Skill.

Sharpen my Sight my Lord that I may spie
A lively Quickness in it jump for joy
And by the breaking of the Shell let fly
Such pleasant Species as will folly stroy.
Out of these Feasts, although the Number Seven
I leave untill my Soul is housd in Heaven.

And here I beg thy aide Mine eyes refine
Untill my Sight is strong enough to spy
Thyselfe my Lord deckt all in Sun Like Shine.
And see myselfe cloathd in thy Beams that fly.
My Sight is dim: With Spectacles mee suite
Made of a pair of Stars it to recrute.

Make mee thy Lunar Body to be filld
In full Conjunction, with thy Shining Selfe
The Sun of Righteousness: whose beams let guild
My Face turnd up to heaven, on which high Shelfe
I shall thy Glorys in my face that shine,
Set in Reflected Rayes. Hence thou hast thine.

Moon-like I have no light here of mine own.
My shining beams are borrowd of this Sun,
With which when 'ray'd its Rayes on mee are shown
Unto this World as I it over run.

118

My black Side's Earthward Yet thy beams that flew
Upon mee from thy face, are in its view.

Hence Angells will in heaven blow up aloud
For joy thy Trumpet on my new Moon day
And in its Prime, the Golden Rayes that shroud
Within thy Face will guild my Edges gay.
Oh! Happy Change. The Sun of Righteousness
With's healing Wings my moon doth richly dress.

And though this world doth eye thy brightness most
When most in distance from thyselfe I'm backt,
Yet then I most am apt even from this Coast
To be Ecclipsed, or by its fogs be blackt.
My back at best, and dark side Godward bee,
And pitchy clouds do hide thy face from mee.

Oh! let not Earth nor its thick fogs I pray
E're slip between me, and thy lightsome Rayes
But let my Cloathing be thy Sunshine Ray.
My New-Moon Trumpet then shall sound thy praise.
I then in sweet Conjunction shall with thee
The Sun of Righteousness abiding bee.

[_]

[The following four stanzas appear after the conclusion of this poem in PW. They have been crossed out and appear, in slightly altered form, as the conclusion of Meditation 22.]

But now I from the New Moon Feast do pass
And pass the Passo're o're unto Gods Seales,
And come to Whitsuntide, and turn its glass
To search for pearles amongst its sands and meals.
For Israel had not fifty dayes been out
Of Egypt, ere at Sinai Law did spout.

So Christ our Passover had not passt ore
Full fifty dayes before in fiery wise
The Law of Spirit and of Life much more
Went out from Zion. Gospell Law did rise.

119

The Harvest of the former yeare is in'd.
Injoy'd, and Consecrated Thanks for't pay'd.
All holding out the Right in things we sind
Away restored is, and they all made
Fit for our use, and that we thankfully
Ourselves unto the using them should ply.

Then make me to this Penticost repare.
Make mee thy Guest, Lord, at this feast, and live
Up to thy Gospell Law. And let my Fare
Be of the two Wave Loaves this Feast doth give.
If th'Prophets Seedtime spring my harvest I
Will, as I reape't, sing thee my harvest joy.