Souls are not Spaniards too; one friendly floodOf 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 controlsOur free traffic for heav'n; we may maintainPeace, sure, with piety, though it come from Spain.What soul soe'er, in any language, canSpeak 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 breaksFrom thence into the wond'ring reader's breast,Who feels his warm heart hatched into a nestOf little eagles and young loves, whose highFlights scorn the lazy dust and things that die.