Part 3 (2/2)

I was 'ware of a spell that snapped, of an inward strength that stirred, Of a Presence that filled that place; and it shone, and I knew my Soul.

And the dream I had called my life was a garment about my feet, For the web of the years was rent with the throe of a yearning strong.

With a sweep as of winds in heaven, with a rush as of flames that meet, The Flesh and the Spirit clasped; and I cried, ”Was I dead so long?”

I had glimpse of the Secret, flashed through the symbol obscure and mean, And I felt as a fire what erst I repeated with lips of clay; And I knew for the things eternal the things eye hath not seen; Yea, the heavens and the earth shall pa.s.s; but they never shall pa.s.s away.

And the miracle on me wrought, in the streets I would straight make known: ”When this marvel of mine is heard, without cavil shall men receive Any legend of haloed saint, staring up through the sealed stone!”

So I spake in the trodden ways; but behold, there would none believe!

THE GLORIOUS COMPANY

”Faces, faces, faces of the streaming marching surge, Streaming on the weary road, toward the awful steep, Whence your glow and glory, as ye set to that sharp verge, Faces lit as sunlit stars, s.h.i.+ning as ye sweep?

”Whence this wondrous radiance that ye somehow catch and cast, Faces rapt, that one discerns 'mid the dusky press Herding in dull wonder, gathering fearful to the Vast?

Surely all is dark before, night of nothingness!”

_Lo, the Light!_ (they answer) _O the pure, the pulsing Light, Beating like a heart of life, like a heart of love, Soaring, searching, filling all the breadth and depth and height, Welling, whelming with its peace worlds below, above!_

”O my soul, how art thou to that living Splendor blind, Sick with thy desire to see even as these men see!-- Yet to look upon them is to know that G.o.d hath s.h.i.+ned: Faces lit as sunlit stars, be all my light to me!”

THE TRUMPETER

Two s.h.i.+ps, alone in sky and sea, Hang clinched, with crash and roar; There is but one--whiche'er it be-- Will ever come to sh.o.r.e.

And will it be the grim black bulk, That towers so evil now?

Or will it be The Grace of G.o.d, With the angel at her prow?

The man that breathes the battle's breath May live at last to know; But the trumpeter lies sick to death In the stifling dark below.

He hears the fight above him rave; He fears his mates must yield; He lies as in a narrow grave Beneath a battle-field.

His fate will fall before the s.h.i.+p's, Whate'er the s.h.i.+p betide; He lifts the trumpet to his lips As though he kissed a bride.

”Now blow thy best, blow thy last, My trumpet, for the Right!”-- He has sent his soul in one strong blast, To hearten them that fight.

COMRADES

”Oh, whither, whither, rider toward the west?”

”And whither, whither, rider toward the east?”

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