Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers. - Richard Crashaw

Souls are not Spaniards too; one friendly flood
Of baptism blends them all into a blood.
Christ's faith makes but one body of all souls,
And love's that body's soul; no law controls
Our free traffic for heav'n; we may maintain
Peace, sure, with piety, though it come from Spain.
What soul soe'er, in any language, can
Speak heav'n like hers is my soul's countryman.
Oh, 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis heav'n she speaks!
'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks
From thence into the wond'ring reader's breast,
Who feels his warm heart hatched into a nest
Of little eagles and young loves, whose high
Flights scorn the lazy dust and things that die.

Whoe’er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me.

The modest front of this small floor,
Believe me, reader, can say more
Than many a braver marble can,—
“Here lies a truly honest man!”