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

Prest down with sorrow, Lord, not for my Sin
But with Saint 'Tony Cross I crossed groane.
Thus my leane Muses garden thwarts the spring
Instead of Anthems, breatheth her ahone.
But duty raps upon her doore for Verse.
That makes her bleed a poem through her searce.

When, Lord, man was the miror of thy Works
In happy state, adorn'd with Glory's Wealth
What heedless thing was hee? The serpent lurks
Under an apple paring, and by stealth
Destroy'd her Glory. O poor keeper hee
Was of himselfe: lost God, and lost his Glee.

Christ, as a Turtle Dove, puts out his Wing.
Lay all on me, I will, saith hee, Convay
Away thy fault, and answer for thy sin.
Thou'st be the Stowhouse of my Grace, and lay
It and thyselfe out in my service pure
And I will for thy sake the storm Endure.

Jonas did type this thing, who ran away
From God and shipt for Tarsus, fell asleep.
A storm lies on the Ship. The Seamen they
Bestir their stumps, and at wits end do weep.
Wake, Jonas, who saith Heave me over deck.
The Storm will Cease then, all lies on my neck.

They cast him overboard out of the ship.
The tempest terrible, lies thereby still.

137

A Mighty Whale nam'd Neptunes Dog doth skip
At such a Boon, Whose greedy gorge can't kill
Neither Concoct this gudgeon, but its Chest
Became the Prophets Coffin for the best.

He three dayes here lies trancifi'de and prayes.
Prooves working Physick in the Fishes Crop.
Maybe in th'Euxine, or the Issick Bay
She puking falls and he alive out drops.
She vomits him alive out on the Land
Whence he to Ninive receives command.

A sermon he unto the Gentiles preacht,
Yet fortie dayes, and Ninus is destroy'd.
Space granted, this Repentance doth them teach
God pardons them, and thus they ruine 'void.
Oh! Sweet Sweet Providence, rich Grace hath spic'te
This Overture to be a type of Christ.

Jonas our Turtle Dove, I Christ intend
Is in the ship for Tarsus under saile.
A fiery storm tempestiously doth spend
The Vessill, and its hands. All Spirits faile.
The ship will sink or Wrack upon the rocks
Unless the tempest cease the same to box.

None can it Charm but Jonas. Christ up posts
Is heaved overboard into the sea.
The Dove must die. The storm gives up its Ghost
And Neptune's Dogg leapes at him as a Prey.
Whose stomach is his Grave where he doth sleep,
Three Dayes sepulchred, Jonas in the Deep.

The Grave him swallow'd down as a rich Pill
Of Working Physick full of Virtue which
Doth purge Death's Constitution of its ill.
And womble-Crops her stomach where it sticks.

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It heaves her stomach till her hasps off fly.
And out hee comes Cast up, rais'd up thereby.

In glorious Grace he to the Heathen goes
Envites them to Repentance, they accept.
Oh! Happy Message squandering Curst foes.
Grace in her glorious Charriot here rides deckt.
Wrath's Fire is quencht. And Graces sun out shines.
Death on her deathbed lies, Consumes and pines.

Here is my rich Atonement in thy Death,
My Lord, nought is so sweet, though sweat it cost.
This turns from me Gods wrath: Thy sweet sweet breath
Revives my heart: thy Rising up o're bosst
My Soule with Hope seeing acquittance in't.
That all my sins are kill'd, that did mee sinke.

I thanke thee, Lord. Thy death hath deadned quite
The Dreadfull Tempest. Let thy Dovy wings
Oreshadow me, and all my Faults benight
And with Celestiall Dews my soule besprindge.
In Angells Quires I'le then my Michtams sing,
Upon my Jonath Elem Rechokim.