Three Men Of Truro
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!
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poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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