Second Series <br /> <br />Canticle 1: 12: While the king sitteth at his table, <br />my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. <br /> <br />Oh! thou, my Lord, thou king of Saints, here mak’st <br />A royall Banquet, thine to entertain <br />With rich and royall fare, Celestial Cates, <br />And sittest at the Table rich of fame. <br />Am I bid to this Feast? Sure Angells stare, <br />Such Rugged looks, and Ragged robes I ware. <br /> <br />I’le surely com; Lord, fit mee for this feast: <br />Purge me with Palma Christi from my sin. <br />With Plastrum Gratiae Dei, or at least <br />Unguent Apostolorum healing bring. <br />Give me thy Sage and Savory: me dub <br />With Golden Rod, and with Saint Johns Wort good. <br /> <br />Root up my Henbain, Fawnbain, Divells bit, <br />My Dragons, Chokewort, Crosswort, Ragwort, vice: <br />And set my knot with Honeysuckles, stick <br />Rich Herb-a-Grace, and Grains of Paradise, <br />Angelica, yes, Sharons Rose the best, <br />And Herba Trinitatis in my breast. <br /> <br />Then let thy Sweetspike sweat its liquid Dew <br />Into my Crystall Viall, and there swim. <br />And, as thou at thy Table in Rich Shew <br />With royal Dainties, sweet discourse as King <br />Dost Welcome thine, My Spiknard with its smell <br />Shall vapour out perfumed Spirits Well./p> <br /> <br />Whether I at thy Table Guest do sit, <br />And feed my tast, or Wait, and fat mine Eye <br />And Eare with Sights and Sounds, Heart Raptures fit: <br />My Spicknard breaths its sweet perfumes with joy. <br />My heart thy Viall with this spicknard fill, <br />Perfumed praise to thee then breath it will.<br /><br />Edward Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/meditation-sixty-two/
