 The Yankee Pharisee Proclaims it his duty, Divinely given, to build New Jerusalem Upon the earth By fire and sword And any other kind of force. The Southerner, Truer son of English And the Celts, senses Something there amiss. Deep within his soul There lies a primordial Memory, of deathless Avalon, the Isle Of Paradise, England’s Jerusalem Of Glastonbury. The Righteous Joseph Of Arimathea Drove out the druids From her hills; there he Honored the Mother of God With a church and an icon That many wonders worked. There his dry staff blossomed Into a living thorn tree. There, on top of the Tor, Men besought Archangel Michael. There, all about, Were cells of monks and nuns. There, saints were buried. From there, St Dunstan Arose to revive the Faith. The Southron understands That New Jerusalem Was built long ago By his kinsmen across the sea. What remains for him To do is bring the spirit Of that place to Southern shores, And bid it grow, and not The slightest half-breath more.
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