I

From this loud noise of passing things, These restless hours with ceaseless hum, To centuries which, like sleeping kings, Rest in the sun,

Turn we. Six hundred years twice told Of blood and power, tears and fame, Twelve hundred high-piled years have rolled In pride or shame,

Since those strong brothers of the cross A world deep-whelmed in strife and sin-- High throned on power, sunk in loss-- Set out to win.

The bitter, sanguinary lands Which most abhorred the Faith, they trod, And carried in their naked hands The gifts of God.

Oh, wide-armed power of certitude! All knowledge, wisdom, guile above! Wrapped in a two-fold amplitude Of faith and love,

They came, saw, won. No craft was there, No conquering sword, no armed appeal, Only a child’s belief in prayer, And a child’s zeal.

Unarmed, unlearned, yet simply wise, Oh sandalled soldiers, brave and true, A mighty continent still lies In debt to you!