'Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.'

—Ephesians vi.13

'Arm! for the foe is near,' and as she spake
A glory clung around her brow, and made
A radiance of her hair, while in her eyes
The perfect faith of love and trust was seen
Like sunlight in a lake when all the winds
Have laid themselves to sleep among the hills.
'Arm!' and she knelt, and round his loins she drew
A mystic belt and, as its jewelled clasp
Tightened, the warrior felt a sudden strength
Shoot through his limbs, and all the blood begin
To rush along each vein, till every nerve
And sinew felt its force. As, at the thought
Of mighty conflicts waged and evils crushed,
He drew himself to fullest height, and turned
A high stern face and eager eyes to where
The smoke of battle mixed with sullen flame
Rose waving in the wind, as if some god
Robed in black clouds had taken wings of fire
And waited for the fight. On his young cheek
Fell the wild glow of that dread battle-fire,
And, waving downward, ran a long thin edge
Of crimson over gleaming shoulder plates,
And curves of deftly fashioned steel, until
He stood as in a sudden light, and cried:
'The storm of peril nears, and I must go.'
And, pausing, she, a hand upon the hilt,
Looked upward to him, and her eyes grew sweet
With that high love whose birth is not of earth
But from above—with that deep trust in Him
Who came and dwelt with men and made Himself
The Word to gather spirits. In his face
She looked but for a moment, then her voice
Came still and low, yet steadfast with that strength
Which cannot fail, she knowing Him, and all
The glory flashing on her inner soul.
'Thou goest forth to fight, but hast thou thought
Not for one hour this battle is, nor lasts
A summer afternoon, whose coming eve
Will bid thee sheathe thy sword and lay aside
The garb of steel and gleaming helm, to take
Thy rest among the shadows, or to dream
Of lighter things that, rising in thy heart,
May clog the soul's grand purpose, till thou grow'st
Yet weaker, and that moment comes in which,
Thine armour off, the foe slips in, and thou,
Half springing up, art slain? But wilt thou hear
Before thou goest what thou hast to fight
Amid the flame of battle seen afar?'
And he, still keeping his keen eyes upon
The smoking drift of battle mixed with fire
And clang of strange dread voices, made reply:
'Yea, let me hear what foes I may expect
To rush against me in the fight—to fall;
For lo, my fingers clinging to the hilt
Of this sharp sword thou girdest on, I feel
A purpose touch my soul as if with fire
Caught from the heart of Him who names Himself
The God of Battles, and I do not fear.
Speak, yea, and as thou speakest—know I wait.'
Then, as she drew the belt to firmer clasp
About him, lo, she spake, and all her tones
Took higher range, and sounded as a voice
A saint hears when his thoughts are up in heaven.
'Thou goest forth to hurl thyself against
The ranks of Error, and stern Doubt that stands
With visor down, and all from helm to heel
Harnessed in serpent scales, and deadly lance
In rest for every comer. He will be
A stubborn foeman, for they fight to death
Who test the ring of truth. But other foes
Will come against thee mightier far than he;
And Ignorance, who wallows in gross aims,
Will only lift his head to see thee pass
And sneer a scornful greeting. All that springs
From the dark depths within thy kind; the sins
Of blood and inclination; the desires
That never seek to lift themselves above
The level of the eyes—a thousand such,
That lurk like tigers by half-hidden springs
To seize their panting victim. These will come
And prowl with fierce malignant eyes to catch
A gap within thy mail at which to launch
Their arrows tipped with poison; and thy blood,
Stung with the venom, will rise up and war
Against thee, till thou wagest with thyself
An inner battle with no potence left
To quell such conflict. Woe to him who wars
And cannot win; for all the outward foes
I spoke of can be fought and smitten down;
But when thou fightest with thyself, then comes
The great death-wrestle of the soul, in which
Thou must at once be victor or go down.
Say, wilt thou still go forth and, knowing all,
Stand in the evil day beheld afar,
Nor, fighting, quail to come against thyself?'
And he, with fearless eyes still turned to where
The smoke of carnage drifted, as the mist
Unfolds itself and creeps along the hill,
Made answer, and his voice rose calm and high,
And sounded like a sudden trumpet call
When men are waiting for it with their hearts
Hushed at the front of battle coming on:—
'Yea, I go forth to fight, and will not fear;
For having donned this armour forged of God,
And this keen sword within my hand to smite
The foes that compass me, I do not fear.
For, as I look between me and the flame,
I see a vision of a hill whereon
Temples and statues glisten, and around
A throng of haughty forms whose eyes are keen
With hate and wonder. In the midst is one
Who towers above them with his hands upraised.
In pitying admonition. On his brow
The west has woven a crown of light. He speaks,
And all who hear are mute, although his voice
Is as word-lightning smiting down their gods.
He stands alone and in his Master's name
Hurls forth the gospel of the cross, and strikes
Error to right and left without one fear;
For who shall fear who knows he speaks the truth?
The strength that made him thus is strength for all,
And so I shrink not from the life-long fight,
Nor death whose touch will only make me stoop
To enter through the gateway of the grave,
That I may wear upon my brow the wreath
Whose leaves are burst in heaven.'
With that he seized
The golden shield, and, striking one strong arm
Throughout its clasps, upraised it. As he stood
The glory glowing round the head of Faith
Shone also on his brow and face, and made
A light as of a victor. And he went.