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!
    Win the old smile a moment ere, alone,
    Soars the great soul to bear report to God.
    Night falls; but thou, dear Captain, from thy star
    Look down, behold how bravely goes the war!


II

A. B. D.

Canon Residentiary and Precentor of Truro December 1903

    Many had builded, and, the building done,
    Through our adornèd gates with din
    Came Prince and Priest, with pipe and clarion
    Leading the right God in.

    Yet, had the perfect temple quickened then
    And whispered us between our song,
    "Give God the praise. To whom of living men
    Shall next our thanks belong?"

    Then had the few, the very few, that wist
    His Atlantean labour, swerved
    Their eyes to seek, and in the triumph missed,
    The man that most deserved.

He only of us was incorporate
    In all that fabric; stone by stone
    Had built his life in her, had made his fate
    And her perfection one;

    Given all he had; and now--when all was given--
    Far spent, within a private shade,
    Heard the loud organ pealing praise to Heaven,
    And learned why man is made.--

    To break his strength, yet always to be brave;
    To preach, and act, the Crucified ...
    Sweep by, O Prince and Prelate, up the nave,
    And fill it with your pride!

    Better than ye what made th' old temples great,
    Because he loved, he understood;
    Indignant that his darling, less in state,
    Should lack a martyr's blood.

She hath it now. O mason, strip away
    Her scaffolding, the flower disclose!
    Lay by the tools with his o'er-wearied clay--
    But She shall bloom unto its Judgment Day,
    His ever-living Rose!


III

C. W. S.

The Fourth Bishop of Truro May 1912

    Prince of courtesy defeated,
    Heir of hope untimely cheated,
    Throned awhile he sat, and, seated,

    Saw his Cornish round him gather;
    "Teach us how to live, good Father!"
    How to die he taught us rather:

Heard the startling trumpet sound him,
    Smiled upon the feast around him,
    Rose, and wrapp'd his coat, and bound him

    When beyond the awful surges,
    Bathed in dawn on Syrian verges,
    God! thy star, thy Cross emerges.

And so sing we all to it--

    Crux, in coelo lux superna,
    Sis in carnis hac taberna
    Mihi pedibus lucerna:

    Quo vexillum dux cohortis
    Sistet, super flumen Mortis,
    Te, flammantibus in portis!