‘Return to the Land of the Four Trees’

What evils had the land

Not suffered since

Her apostasy?

First came the terrible wars

Without end, and in their train

Followed disease, death,

And misery.

Then the cities

Like a plague of boils

Appeared, stark and squalid

In the countryside,

As places of refuge

For the war-hounded.

But when the poison mist

Was released to gain

The upper hand,

More like prison houses

They afterwards became.

Food was so scarce

That all the carcasses

Of bird and beast and man

That could be gathered

Were ground together

Into a powder

And boiled to make

A noxious broth,

Which, though it kept

The body alive,

It ravaged the soul and mind.

Nor did the mist

Depart entirely,

But hung in the air,

A turgid yellow-brown,

So that even a sunray

Became a rare

Commodity.

Yet not every place

Was thus afflicted.

In one poor village

Many miles away,

Hidden in a valley,

Life continued on

In a quiet way,

Peaceful and serene.

For long before,

One family had gone

To the martyr’s shrine

To receive their

Yearly blessing from the priest.

But he, his heart

Foreboding

Evil tidings

To come, sent them home

With one of the fruits

Of the Four Trees,

And bade them to keep it

Safely in their home

Till word should come

To them what ought

Be done with it.

So there it stayed,

In a corner

Of their little cottage,

All warm and white,

In a little silver box,

Still gleaming with the light

Its forebear once shed.

And because of the presence

Of this fruit, the village

Was blessed:  The poison mist

Came not near; goats and ducks

Gave them milk and meat;

And the earth gave them

Corn and greens to eat.

Many years passed

For the family

Who kept the sacred seed.

Their children begat children;

Then there were great grandchildren;

Who in turn raised up

A bairn-team of their own.

And so it was

In the time of these

Last born that God,

In pity for the world

He had made, sent an angel

To the young father

Of the cottage, saying

That he should plant

The fruit in the center

Of the village.

Kneeling before his holy guest,

He gave his assent.

With a few quick words

He told his neighbors

What was to be done,

And all gave him leave and watched,

Waiting to see what this

Would mean for the world.

And lo!  No sooner

Was the soil spread o’er

The flesh of the fruit

Than a full-grown tree

Sprang up, shining as brightly

As its kindred had.

But because it shone

So brilliantly,

It smote the eyes

Of the warring peoples

Far away, so accustomed

To darkness had they become.

And being in

Their sickened state,

They flew into a rage.

Forgetting their bitterness

One towards another,

They united at last,

But to do a greater evil

Than what they had done

Heretofore:

Extinguish the light

That tortured them so.

Onward in their caravans

They came, armed with weapons

And contraptions of war.

When they reached the village,

A defense was mounted,

But they were no match

For the beastly men,

Goaded by their

Hatred of the light.

And several village men

Were slaughtered

Ere the battle ended.

Withstanders subdued,

The army turned

Their attention

To the radiant Tree.

Their eyes could not

Look straight upon it.

Withal, they took up

Their blades and other battlements

And rushed towards it.

With blow after blow

They beat upon it,

The holy Tree,

Doing little harm,

For its bark was harder

Than the strongest

Of their armor.

But at last one mighty stroke

Broke ope a wound

In the sturdy bough,

And a little stream

Of sweetest myrrh

Did issue from it.

The God of all,

Seeing this grievous thing,

Thundered from Heaven,

‘Enough!’  And he called forth

His martyr from deep

Within the earth.

And without delay

The earth opened,

And Ezmo the martyr,

Now whole and hale,

Rose out from the ground.

His countenance

Was like unto

That of the Tree,

Only brighter,

So that the marauders,

Overwhelmed by the voice,

And the light, and the wondrous

Rising of the martyr,

Became still at last.

Ezmo, knowing

Their condition,

Offered to them

Healing of soul and body,

If they would accept it.

And all, weary within

Of evil, did accept.

And Ezmo, taking

Of the myrrh that flowed

From the Tree, marked each one

With it, regenerating

The whole man and uniting

Each to the Holy God.

Then verily

They all in one accord

Destroyed their blades

And ev’ry machine devised

For war as things defiled,

And tore down their cities.

Then trees were grown,

And seed was sown

In their dominion

In abundance not seen

In generations many.

And the light of the Tree

Became for them

A blessing and not a curse.

Yet for Ezmo,  

There was more to do.

He went to those

Who fell in battle,

And laid his hands

Upon them, returning life

To their bodies,

Giving them back

To their families.

Then he sought out

The young father

Of the cottage,

One of those valiant

Men of the battle,

Who had lately

Guarded the seed

Of the Tree,

And finding him,

Anointed him

With the myrrh of the Tree,

Proclaiming him

And his offspring after him

Kings forever of the land.

And his brother

With his sons he likewise

Consecrated as priests

Of God unendingly.

These acts done, the martyr

Placed his hands upon the Tree,

Praying earnestly to God,

And the myrrh ceased its flowing,

And its wound was healed.

However, when the time

Came to anoint

A new king or priest,

A little cleft

Would open in the Tree,

Giving sacred myrrh

For the holy occasion.

For seven weeks after

That astonishing day,

Ezmo walked to and fro

Across the land,

Teaching and

Comforting those he met,

At the end of which

Was the day foremarked

For him to leave the world.

And one last time

Ezmo blessed in person

The people and the land.

And rising a little way

Into the sky,

He disappeared

From mortal eye,

Leaving all in the tender

Watchcare of the Tree,

The priests, and the king.

Now a fairer age

Had dawned upon

The people of the land.

But the heart of man

May lean toward evil

Or toward good.

How long will this

Blessèd age remain?

None can venture

A word to say.

--

Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!

Anathema to the Union!