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!

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

With sword that drank the dawn; the Vase of Gold

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