A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 32 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

To-day I was at Milan, in such thought
As pilgrims bring who at faith's threshold stand,
Still burdened with the sorrows they have brought,
And vexed with stranger tongues in a strange land.
And lo, this sign was given me. At my hand
Hung that mysterious supper Vinci wrought
With the sad twelve who were Christ's chosen band,
A type of vows and courage come to nought.
And, while I gazed, with a reproachful look
The bread was broken and the wine was poured,
And the disciples raised their hands and spoke,
Each asking "Is it I? and I too? Lord!"
And there was answered them this mournful cry:
"All shall abandon me to-night." So I.

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