Nature, and name, to be made good,
By a nobler Bread, more needful Blood.

VII

Where Nature's laws no leave will give,
Bold Faith takes heart, and dares believe
In different Species: name not things,
Himself to me my Saviour brings;
As meat in that, as drink in this,
But still in both one Christ He is.

VIII

The receiving mouth here makes
Nor wound nor breach in What he takes.
Let one, or one thousand be

Here dividers, single he

Bears home no less, all they no more,
Nor leave they both less than before.

IX

Though in Itself this sov'reign Feast
Be all the same to every guest,
Yet on the same (life-meaning) Bread
The child of death eats himself dead:
Nor is't Love's fault, but Sin's dire skill
That thus from Life can death distil.

Χ

When the blest Signs thou broke shalt see,
Hold but thy faith entire as He,

Who, howsoe'er clad, cannot come
Less than whole Christ in every crumb.

In broken forms a stable Faith
Untouch'd her precious total hath.

XI

Lo, the Life-food of angels then
Bow'd to the lowly mouths of men ;

The children's Bread, the Bridegroom's Wine,
Not to be cast to dogs or swine.

XII

Lo, the full, final Sacrifice
On which all figures fix'd their eyes
The ransom'd Isaac, and his ram;
The manna, and the paschal lamb.

XIII

Jesu Master, just and true,

:

Our Food, and faithful Shepherd too;
O by Thyself vouchsafe to keep,

As with Thyself Thou feed'st Thy sheep.

XIV

O let that love which thus makes Thee
Mix with our low mortality,

Lift our lean souls, and set us up

Convictors of Thine Own full cup,

Coheirs of Saints. That so all may

Drink the same wine; and the same way:

Not change the pasture, but the place,

To feed of Thee in Thine Own Face. Amen.

PRAYER

AN ODE WHICH WAS PREFIXED TO A LITTLE PRAYERBOOK GIVEN TO A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN

LO here a little volume, but great book! (Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite),

Much larger in itself than in its look.
A nest of new-born sweets;
Whose native fires disdaining
To lie thus folded, and complaining
Of these ignoble sheets,
Affect more comely bands
(Fair one) from thy kind hands;
And confidently look

To find the rest

Of a rich binding in your breast.

It is, in one choice handful, Heaven and all
Heaven's royal host; encamp'd thus small
To prove that true, Schools use to tell,
Ten thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is Love's great artillery

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie
Close-couch'd in your white bosom ; and from
thence,

As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foes to take your part,
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is an armoury of light;

Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields,

To holy hands and humble hearts,
More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares, or Hell hath darts.
Only be sure

The hands be pure

That hold these weapons; and the eyes
Those of turtles,1 chaste and true;
Wakeful and wise:

Here is a friend shall fight for you,
Hold but this book before your heart,
Let Prayer alone to play his part;
But O the heart,

That studies this high art,
Must be a sure house-keeper:
And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring his bosom fraught with blessings, Flowers of never-fading graces,

To make immortal dressings

For worthy souls, whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for Him, Who is alone
The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.
But if the noble Bridegroom, when He come,
Shall find the loitering heart from home;
Leaving her chaste abode

To gad abroad

Among the gay mates of the god of flies;
To take her pleasure, and to play
And keep the devil's holiday;

To dance in th' sunshine of some smiling
But beguiling

1 Turtle doves.

2 Beelzebub. Cf. Paradise Lost, II. 299.

2

Sphere of sweet and sugar'd lies;
Some slippery pair,

Of false, perhaps as fair,
Flattering but forswearing, eyes;
Doubtless some other heart
Will get the start
Meanwhile, and stepping in before,
Will take possession of the sacred store
Of hidden sweets and holy joys;
Words which are not heard with ears
(Those tumultuous shops of noise)
Effectual whispers, whose still voice
The soul itself more feels than hears;
Amorous languishments, luminous trances ;
Sights which are not seen with eyes ;
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances,
Whose pure and subtle lightning flies

Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire
And melts it down in sweet desire:

Yet does not stay

To ask the windows' leave to

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations

Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;

A thousand unknown rites

Of joys, and rarefied delights;

An hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces; And many a mystic thing,

Which the divine embraces

Of the dear Spouse of spirits, with them will bring;
For which it is no shame

That dull mortality must not know a name.
Of all this hidden store

Of blessings, and ten thousand more

(If when He come

He find the heart from home)