Now long, long afterward there came a time when there was war in the land and one day a rough soldier who recked not of its heavenly origin cut down the sacred tree. Only a flat stone now marks the place where it once stood and where Joseph's staff burst into bloom. But there were other trees which had been grown from slips of the miraculous thorn and these, "mindful of our Lord" still keep the sacred birthday and blossom each year on Christmas Day.
THE BLOOMING OF THE WHITE THORN
EDITH MATILDA THOMAS
God shield ye, comrades of the road!
And while our way we hold,
List while I tell how it first befell
In the wondrous days of old.
* * * * *
From off the sea, the pilgrims came,
With sea-toil wracked and worn;
The air blew keen, and the frost was sheen,
Upon that wintry morn.
Through Glastonbury street went they;
And ever on, and on,
Till they pass the well of the fairy spell,
And the oak of Avalon.
They hear the rustling leaves and few,
That linger on the bough;
But still they fare through the bitter air,
And climb a hill-slope now.
On Weary-All-Hill their feet they stay
(Full well that Hill ye know);
There may they rest, by toil oppressed,
While round them drops the snow.
And one—far gone in age was he—
As snow, his locks were white—
The staff of thorn which he had borne,
Did plant upon that height.