The Modern Warrior

O WARRIOR for the Right,
Though thy shirt of mail be white
As the snows upon the breast of The Adored,
Though the weapon thou mayest claim
Hath been temper'd in the flame
Of the fire upon the Altar of the Lord,
Ere the coming of the night,
Thy mail shall be less bright,
«\.nd the taint of sin may settle on the Sword!

For the foemen thou must meet
Are the phantoms in the street,
And thine armour shall be foul'd in many a place,
And the shameful mire and mud,
With a grosser stain than blood,
Shall be scatter'd 'mid the fray upon thy face;
And the helpless thou dost aid
Shall shrink from thee dismayed,
Till thou comest to the knowledge of things

Ah, mortal, with a brow
Like the gleam of sunrise, thou
May'st wander from the pathway in thy turn,
In the noontide of thy strength
Be stricken down at length,
And cry to God for aid, and live, and learn;
And when, with many a stain,
Thou arisest up again,
The lightning of thy look will be less stern.

Thou shall see with humbler eye
The adulteress go by,
Nor shudder at the touch of her attire;
Thou shall only look with grief
On the liar and the thief,
Thou shall meel the very murtherer in the mire —
And to which wouldst thou accord,
O thou Warrior of the Lord!
The vengeance of the Sword and of the Fire?

Nay! baller'd in the fray,
Thou shall quake in acl lo slay,
And remember thy transgression and be meek;
And the thief shall grasp thy hand,
And the liar blushing stand,
And Ihe harlol if she lisl shall kiss Ihy cheek;
And Ihe murlherer, unafraid,
Shall meel thee in the shade,
And pray thee for Ihe doom ihou will not wreak.

Yet thou shall help the frail
From the phantoms lhal assail,
Yea, Ihe strong man in his anger Ihou shall dare;
Thy voice shall be a song
Against wickedness and wrong,
But Ihe wicked and the wronger thou shall spare.
And while ihou lead'sl Ihe van,
The ungraleful hand of man
Shall smite thee down and slay thee unaware.

With an agonised cry
Thou shall shiver down and die,
With stained shirt of mail and broken brand;
And the voice of men shall call,
He is fallen like us all,
Though the weapon of Ihe Lord was in his hand; '
And ihine epilaph shall be,
'He was wretched ev'n as we; '
And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.

Bui Ihe basesl of Ihe base
Shall bless Ihy pale dead face
And Ihe Ihief shall sleal a bloody lock of hair;
And over thee asleep,
The adulleress shall weep
Such lears as she can never shed elsewhere,
Shall bless the broken brand
In thy chill and nerveless hand,
Shall kiss thy stained vesture wilh a prayer.

Then, while in lhal chill place
Sland Ihe basesl of Ihe base,
Galher'd round Ihee in ihe silence of Ihe dark,
A while Face shall look down
On ihe silence of ihe lown,
And see Ihee lying dead with those to mark,
And a voice shall fill ihe air,
'Bear my Warrior lying ihere
To his sleep upon my Breasl! ' ard they shall heark.

Lo, Ihen Ihose fallen ihings
Shall perceive a rush of wings
Growing nearer down ihe azure gulfs untrod,
And around them in the night
There shall grow a wondrous light,
While they hide affrighted faces on Ihe sod,
Bui ere again 'lis dark,
They shall raise iheir eyes, and mark
While arms lhal wafl ihe Warrior up to God!