In Sable lines laid o're a silver ground
The face of that mysterious Man is found,
Whose secret life and publish'd Writings prove,
To Pray is not to talke, or thinke, but love.
No streame of Words, nor Sparkes of Witt did fill
His tongue or fancy when he Pray'd; His Will
Through Beames divine, conceiv'd a chast Desire,
And Teares of Joy enlivened the soft Fire.
Yet some have falsely thought his sober flame
With those Wild-fires that haunt our Isle, the same
So Idolls to Church-pictures like may be,
And fondest love resemble Charity.
Hayle Booke of life! Temple of Wisedome, hayle!
Against the Synagogues of Hell prevaile.
England may now her SAINT-SOPHIA boast:
A fairer too, then that the Grecians lost.
Fr. Leander Norminton
of the Holy Order of
S. Benedict.