Edward Taylor(ea, 1642–1729)
Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children
A c u r i o u s knot1 G o d m a d e in p a r a d i s e ,
A n d drew it out e n a m e l e d 0 neatly fresh.variously colored
It w a s the truelove knot, m o r e sweet than spice
A n d set with all the flowers of grace's dress.
Its w e d d i n g knot, that ne'er c a n be untied;
No Alexander's sword c a n it divide.2
The slips 0 here planted, gay and glorious grow,sprigs
U n l e s s an hellish b r e a t h do singe their p l u m e s .
Here primrose, cowslips, roses, lilies blow 0bloom
With violets and pinks that void 0 perfumes:give off, exude
W h o s e b e a u t e o u s leaves o'er laid with honey-dew,
A n d c h a n t i n g birds chirp out sweet m u s i c true.
W h e n in this knot I p l a n t e d was, my stock3
S o o n knotted, a n d a m a n l y flower out brake.
A n d after it my b r a n c h a g a i n did knot;
B r o u g h t out a n o t h e r flower its sweet b r e a t h e d m a t e .
O n e knot gave one t'other the t'other's place;
W h e n c e c h u c k l i n g smiles f o u g h t in e a c h other's f a c e .
B u t oh! a glorious h a n d f r o m glory c a m e
G u a r d e d with angels, s o o n did crop this flower
W h i c h a l m o s t tore the root up of the s a m e
At that u n l o o k e d for, d o l e s o m e , d a r k s o m e hour.
In prayer to Christ p e r f u m e d it did a s c e n d ,
A n d angels bright did it to h e a v e n tend.
B u t p a u s i n g on't, this sweet4 p e r f u m e d my thought,
C h r i s t w o u l d in glory have a flower, choice, prime,
A n d having choice, c h o s e this my b r a n c h forth brought.
L o r d take't. I t h a n k thee, thou takest a u g h t 0 of m i n e ,nothing
It is my p l e d g e in glory; part of me
Is now in it, Lord, glorified with thee.
B u t praying o'er my b r a n c h , my b r a n c h did sprout
A n d bore a n o t h e r m a n l y flower, a n d gay;
A n d after that another, sweet, brake out,
T h e w h i c h the f o r m e r h a n d s o o n got away.took
B u t oh! the tortures, vomit, s c r e e c h i n g s , groans,
A n d six w e e k s fever w o u l d pierce hearts like s t o n e s .
G r i e f o'er doth flow, a n d n a t u r e fault w o u l d find
W e r e not thy will, my spell c h a r m , joy, a n d g e m ;
T h a t as I said, I say, take, Lord, they're thine.
I p i e c e m e a l p a s s to glory bright in t h e m .
I joy, m a y I sweet flowers for glory breed,
W h e t h e r thou getst t h e m green, or let t h e m seed.
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