The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“The white holly thorn of Glastonbury is said to proceed, one time, from the pilgrim staff of Joseph of Arimathea; which he had no sooner struck in the earth to lean upon, in order to preach, but, by a wonderful vegetation, to the confusion of the Druids, it turned into a blossoming thorn.” —Gent's History of Rippon, 1733.

Lo! high above the towering steeple stands,
This giant bulk of monumental stone!
For here the pilgrim saint of other lands
First preach'd the new-born God, erstwhile unknown,
Whose body he but late beneath the sod laid down.

The wondering Druids listen with amaze,
To hear this good old man's enraptured tongue,
To see his shining head, and kindling gaze—
To know the starry world of which he sung,
That never yet they knew the forest shades among.

Theirs was religion of the open sky,
And leafy trees, and sounds that never fade;
They had beheld no martyr'd Saviour die,
His holy look fill'd not the forest shade,
Whilst wondrously from Him this old man's heart was sway'd.

His was religion of a holier kind;
He had beheld a martyr'd God in pain—

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Had heard the unfurling banners of the wind—
The thunder roaring o'er the affrighted plain—
The lightning's terrible glare, the temples rent in twain.

And therefore was he clothed in heaven's own light,
A holy lustre shone where'er he went;
His speech was as the spheric tunes of night,
That with strange music fill the firmament:
Glad tidings of great joy he bore, this holy saint.

The ancient shadows, frighted, fled away,
The darkness of old Night was scattered;
The proud religion of the former day
In adoration bow'd its bleeding head,
And light divine from Heaven rejoiced the earthly dead.

Strange miracles lit up the forest gloom,
And shook the stately altars to the ground,
As of the thunder of a coming Doom!—
Vast rushing hosts came listening to the sound,
Whilst on the Apostle walk'd, showering God's blessings round.

Innumerable thousands listening crowd
To hear each word the holy man may say;
Each note of inspiration thunders loud;
Upon his face shines heaven's most perfect day,
Whilst still the Saint doth preach the one and only way.

But, lo! the staff whereon the prophet leant,
Among the flowers a flowering thorn doth bloom—

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A flowering thorn endow'd with heavenly scent,
That fills the wilderness with dense perfume,
And to the clouds it shoots and shakes its seraph plume.

Louder than is the clang of sword and spear,
Louder than is the brawl of rocky stream,
Sounds the loud shout of wonder, awe, and fear,
To view this greater wonder than a dream,
Who this might cause but Him, the apostle's God supreme.

And so unto this day blooms on the thorn,
That thorn, the pilgrimage of many an age;
And 'neath its scented boughs since then hath worn
Pure virgin hearts that burnt in tender rage
With fires that nought might quench, no solace might assuage.

And thousands from the mountain and the wood,
And the believing valleys came and heard,
And wash'd in the Redeemer's cleansing blood,
That like sweet music round their heart-strings stirr'd,
And men of pomp, and kings, listen'd to hear the word.

The evening star hath glimmer'd on its shade;
The wandering moon hath shed its holy light;
The various sky through rolling years hath made
A fitting shadow o'er its lustre bright,
Whilst still the blossoming thorn blooms freshly day and night.

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Joseph of Arimathea joins the dead,
His body in the proud cathedral lies;
Now the loud organ thunders o'er his head;
Sweet choristers chant forth the mysteries
His sainted soul beholds amid the starry skies.