On a Prayer-Book Sent to Mrs. M. R
LO, here a little volume, but great book!A nest of new-born sweets,Whose native pages, ’sdainingTo be thus folded, and complainingOf these ignoble sheets,Affect more comely bands,Fair one, from thy kind hands,And confidently lookTo find the restOf a rich binding in your breast!
It is in one choice handful, heaven; and allHeaven’s royal hosts encamped, thus smallTo prove that true schools use to tell,A thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is love’s great artillery,Which here contracts itself, and comes to lieClose couched in your white bosom; and from thence,As from a snowy fortress of defence,Against your ghostly foe 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 yieldsTo holy hands and humble heartsMore swords and shieldsThan sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.
Only be sureThe hands be pureThat hold these weapons, and the eyesThose of turtles, chaste, and true,Wakeful, and wise.Here’s a friend shall fight for you;Hold but this book before your heart,Let prayer alone to play his part.
But, O! the heartThat studies this high artMust be a sure housekeeper,And yet no sleeper.Dear soul, be strong;Mercy will come ere long,And bring her bosom full of blessings,Flowers of never-fading graces,To make immortal dressingsFor worthy souls, whose wise embracesStore up themselves for Him who is aloneThe Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin’s Son.
But if the noble Bridegroom when He comesShall find the wandering heart from home,Leaving her chaste abodeTo gad abroad,Amongst the gay mates of the god of fliesTo take her pleasure, and to playAnd keep the Devil’s holy day;To dance in the sunshine of some smiling,But beguilingSpheres of sweet and sugared lies,Some slippery pairOf false, perhaps, as fair,Flattering, but forswearing, eyes;
Doubtless some other heartWill get the startMeanwhile, and, stepping in before,Will take possession of that sacred storeOf hidden sweets, and holy joys,Words which are not heard with ears—These tumultuous shops of noise—Effectual whispers, whose still voiceThe soul itself more feels than hears;
Amorous languishments, luminous trances,Sights which are not seen with eyes,Spiritual and soul-piercing glancesWhose pure and subtle lightning fliesHome to the heart, and sets the house on fireAnd melts it down in sweet desire,Yet does not stayTo ask the window’s leave to pass that way;
Delicious deaths, soft exhalationsOf soul; dear and divine annihilations;A thousand unknown ritesOf joys, and rarefied delights;
A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,And many a mystic thing,Which the divine embracesOf the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bringFor which it is no shameThat dull mortality must not know a name.
Of all this storeOf blessings, and ten thousand more,If when He comeHe find the heart from home,Doubtless He will unloadHimself some otherwhere,And pour abroadHis precious sweets,On the fair soul whom first He meets.
O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!O happy, and thrice happy she,Dear silver-breasted dove,Whoe’er she be,Whose early loveWith winged vowsMakes haste to meet her morning Spouse,And close with His immortal kisses!Happy, indeed, who never missesTo improve that precious hour,And every daySeize her sweet prey,All fresh and fragrant as He rises,Dropping, with a balmy shower,A delicious dew of spices.
O, let the blessful heart hold fastHer heavenly armful, she shall tasteAt once ten thousand paradises!She shall have powerTo rifle and deflowerThe rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,Which with a swelling bosom there she meets;Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasuresOf pure inebriating pleasures;Happy proof she shall discover,What joy, what bliss,How many heavens at once it is,To have a God become her lover!