I

E. W. B.

Archbishop of Canterbury: sometime the First Bishop
of Truro. October 1896

The Church's outpost on a neck of land—

By ebb of faith the foremost left the last—

Dull, starved of hope, we watched the driven sand

Blown through the hour-glass, covering our past,

Counting no hours to our relief—no hail

Across the hills, and on the sea no sail!

Sick of monotonous days we lost account,

In fitful dreams remembering days of old

And nights—th' erect Archangel on the Mount
With sword that drank the dawn; the Vase of Gold

The moving Grail athwart the starry fields

Where all the heavenly spearmen clashed their

shields.

In dereliction by the deafening shore

We sought no more aloft, but sunk our eyes,

Probing the sea for food, the earth for ore.

Ah, yet had one good soldier of the skies

Burst through the wrack reporting news of them,

How had we run and kissed his garment's hem!


Nay, but he came! Nay, but he stood and cried,

Panting with joy and the fierce fervent race,

"Arm, arm! for Christ returns!"—and all our pride,

Our ancient pride, answered that eager face:

"Repair His battlements!—Your Christ is near!"

And, half in dream, we raised the soldiers' cheer.

Far, as we flung that challenge, fled the ghosts—
Back, as we built, the obscene foe withdrew—

High to the song of hammers sang the hosts

Of Heaven—and lo! the daystar, and a new

Dawn with its chalice and its wind as wine;

And youth was hope, and life once more divine!

Day, and hot noon, and now the evening glow,

And 'neath our scaffolding the city spread

Twilit, with rain-wash'd roofs, and—hark!—below,

One late bell tolling. "Dead? Our Captain dead?"

Nay, here with us he fronts the westering sun

With shaded eyes and counts the wide fields won.


Aloft with us! And while another stone

Swings to its socket, haste with trowel and hod!

Win the old smile a moment ere, alone,

Soars the great soul to bear report to God.

Night falls; but thou, dear Captain, from thy star

Look down, behold how bravely goes the war!