Ii

From pastures deep in rain-fed grass, From high, sea-smitten rocks austere, As curlew, hern, and bittern pass, So, year by year,

On tireless bleeding feet they trod From Eiré to Imperial Rome, Slept ’neath the stars; the breast of God Their shield and home.

No devious track was theirs of fear, The best-worn paths they loved to take, Till Heaven itself seemed chiefly dear For the world’s sake.

And if at times their loud-pitched screed Rasps on our subtler nerves to-day, Certes an older, dreamier creed Behind it lay.

The wind-shod myrmidons of sleep, The dancers upon heath and fell, The fluters of the woodland deep-- They knew these well.

For who those flutes would mark as clear, Or note the fluters dancing by As men who prayed, and lay in fear ’Neath a dark sky!

A sky thick-set with rustling wing, An earth thrilled through with awful knell Amid whose hollow toilings ring Loud cries of hell.

With ancient terrors worse than death; Yet lit with lights beyond our ken; Stern burden for the fleeting breath Of short-lived men!

Yet no blind homage of a slave Was theirs--dark souls which cringe to live-- To One they loved and served they gave As lovers give.