THE TRYST OF NATIONS.
Tremendous dawn! that turns its back upon a fumbling
past, and then, in radiant ecstasy, sweeps up the heavens,
down the spaces of the wind, revealing, healing, seeking
out the darkest places of the world.
Night, still crimsoned by the blood of sacrifice, has sung its
Sorrow-Song; we must forget, and pray for those who
day by day must grow more intimate with pain, or some
unspoken loneliness.
O Dawn of Love’s completion, though earth still trembles
we no longer fear imperial will, and, phoenix-like, the
peasant rises from the dust, stares with his blinded eyes,
and praises God.
Cold Royalty, intolerable, an outcast, false and dull, the
cruel lines about its lips still tightly drawn—lost in the
art of savagery—sees not the new rich dawn, hears not
the herald-trumpetings, knows not the meaning of a
broken crown.
Written for the Pilgrim Tercentenary, Plymouth, 1921.