RHYME OF JOYOUS GUARD 



That saint, Thy servant, was counted dear 

 Whose sword in the garden grazed the ear 

 Of Thine enemy, Lord Redeemer ! 

 Not thus on the shattering visor jarr'd 

 In this hand the iron of the hilt crossbarr'd, 

 When the blade was swallow'd up to the 

 guard 



Through the teeth of the strong 

 blasphemer. 



If ever I smote as a man should smite, 

 If I struck one stroke that seem'd good in 

 Thy sight, 



By Thy loving mercy prevailing, 

 Lord ! let her stand in the light of Thy face, 

 Cloth'd with Thy love and crown'd with Thy 



grace, 

 When I gnash my teeth in the terrible place 

 That is filled with weeping and wailing. 



Shall I comfort my soul on account of this ? 



In the world to come, whatsoever it is, 



There is no more earthly ill-doing — 



For the dusty darkness shall slay desire, 



251 



