Now, mass being said, before the priest he brought
That glittering prophecy, his untried sword.
In some mysterious forge the blade was wrought,
By shadowy arms of force that baffle thought
Wrought curiously in the dim under-world;
And all along the sheath processions poured,
Thronged shapes of earth’s weird morn
Ere yet the hammer of Thor was downward hurled:
Not less it had for hilt the Cross of Christ the Lord,
And must thereby in battle aye be borne.
V
Cool-sprinkled with the consecrated wave,
That blade was blessed, that it should strike to save;
And next, pure hands of youth in hands of age
Were held upon the page
Of the illuminate missal, full of prayers,--
Rich fields, wherethrough the river of souls has rushed
Long, long, to have its passion held and hushed
In the breast of that calm sea whereto it fares:
And steadfastly the aspirant vow did plight
To bear the sword, or break it, for the Right;
And living well his life, yet hold it light,--
Yea, for that sovereign sake a worthless thing.