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!