Henry Morton Robinson
T^esideratus Merrier Go down, Tall Priest, to the iron sea; Slough the old cross of clay and bone; Kneel, and whatever gods there be Let them proclaim you for their own. Under your cassock...
...Your spired cathedral fell...
...And mitred only by your soul Drew round you all your ravaged flock...
...Laying aside your scholar's scroll You were their refuge and their rock...
...Henry Morton Robinson...
...each stone Rained like a death upon your head...
...The open Book is in your hand...
...You stood in the red storm alone, Comforting all, uncomforted...
...Under the glacier of your glance A hot, invading torrent froze...
...Under your cassock shines your sword...
...No steel was sharper than the lance Of scorn you hurled at Belgium's foes...
...The tired earth, like a broken wheel May falter on its track of dust, But you, strong-sinewed with the steel Of man's immortal, Godward thrust, Have broken the clay bonds of fear, And blazing into astral flame, Have set a new star in the tier Of comets hallowing His Name...
...You knew, and taught, and spoke the Word Of high insuperable command...
Vol. 3 • February 1926 • No. 15
