Pages

Thursday, June 13, 2019

‘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!

No comments:

Post a Comment