The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

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,
And 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,

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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 base.

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 shalt see with humbler eye
The adulteress go by,
Nor shudder at the touch of her attire;
Thou shalt only look with grief
On the liar and the thief,
Thou shalt meet 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! batter'd in the fray,
Thou shalt quake in act to slay,
And remember thy transgression and be meek;
And the thief shall grasp thy hand,
And the liar blushing stand,
And the harlot if she list shall kiss thy cheek;
And the murtherer, unafraid,
Shall meet thee in the shade,
And pray thee for the doom thou wilt not wreak.

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

With an agonisëd cry
Thou shalt shiver down and die,
With stainëd shirt of mail and broken brand;
And the voice of men shall call,
‘He is fallen like us all,
Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand;’
And thine epitaph shall be,
‘He was wretched ev'n as we;’
And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.

But the basest of the base
Shall bless thy pale dead face
And the thief shall steal a bloody lock of hair;
And over thee asleep,
The adulteress shall weep
Such tears as she can never shed elsewhere,
Shall bless the broken brand
In thy chill and nerveless hand,
Shall kiss thy stainëd vesture with a prayer.

Then, while in that chill place
Stand the basest of the base,
Gather'd round thee in the silence of the dark,
A white Face shall look down
On the silence of the town,
And see thee lying dead with those to mark,
And a voice shall fill the air,
‘Bear my Warrior lying there
To his sleep upon my Breast!’ and they shall heark.

Lo, then those fallen things
Shall perceive a rush of wings
Growing nearer down the azure gulfs untrod,
And around them in the night
There shall grow a wondrous light,
While they hide affrighted faces on the sod,
But ere again 'tis dark,
They shall raise their eyes, and mark
White arms that waft the Warrior up to God!