THE APOTHEOSIS OF ST. DOROTHY by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE

A MAIDEN wandering from the East,
A saint immaculately white,
I saw in holy dream last night,
Who rode upon a milk-white beast;
Across the woods her shadow fell,
And wrought a strange and silent spell,
A miracle.

With firm-set eyes, and changeless face,
She passed the cities one by one;
Her hair was coloured like the sun,
And shed a glory round the place;
Where'er she came, she was so fair,
That men fell down and worshipped there
In silent prayer.

And ever in her sacred hands
She bore a quaintly carven pyx
Of serpentine and sardonyx,
The wonder of those Eastern lands;
Wherein were laid, preserved in myrrh,
The gifts of vase and thurifer
She bore with her.

And after many days she came
To that high mountain, where are built
The towers of Sarras, carved and gilt
And fashioned like thin spires of flame:
Then like a traveller coming home
She let her mild-eyed palfrey roam,
And upward clomb.

Oh! then methought the turrets rang
With shouting, joyous multitudes,
And through the tumult interludes
Of choral hosts, that played and sang;
Such welcome, since the world hath been,
To singer, prophetess or queen,
Was never seen.

Its golden gates flung open wide,
The city seemed a lake of light,
For chrysoprase and chrysolite
Were wrought for walls on every side;
Without, the town was meet for war,
But inwardly each bolt and bar
Shone like a star.

Then, while I wondered, all the sky
Above the city broke in light,
And opened to my startled sight
The heavens immeasurably high,
A glorious effluence of air,
And shining ether, pure and rare,
Divinely fair.

And, rising up amid the spires,
I saw the saintly maiden go,
In splendour like new-fallen snow,
That robs the sunrise of its fires;
So pure, so beautiful she was!
She rose like vapoury clouds that pass
From dewy grass.

Between her palms, the pyx of gold
She held up like an offering sent
To Him, who holds the firmament
And made the starry world of old;
It glimmered like the golden star
That shines on Christmas eve afar,
Where shepherds are.

And clouds of angels, choir on choir,
Bowed out of heaven to welcome her,
And poured upon her nard and myrrh,
And bathed her forehead in white fire,
And waved in air their gracious wings,
And smote their kindling viol-strings
In choral rings.

But she, like one who swooning sees
A vision just before he dies,
With quivering lips and lustrous eyes
Gazed up the shining distances;
But soon the angels led her on
Where fiercer cloudy splendour shone,
And she was gone.

And then a voice cried: "This is she
Who through great tribulation trod
Her thorny pathway up to God,
The blessed virgin Dorothy.
Still to the blessed Three-in-One
Be glory, honour, worship done
Beneath the sun!"

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