Medieval Christmas Poetry (ii)

My favourite medieval poem for Christmas is this Hymn to the Virgin. The trick of inserting rhyming Latin into rhyming English, whilst making the meaning quite clear, really appeals to me.

This is from about 1300.

Of on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella
Brighter than the day is light
Parens et puella
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee,
Maria.

Al this world was for-lore,
Eva peccatrice
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice
With ave it went away
Thuster nyth and comes the day
Salutis
The well springeth ut of the
Virtutis

Levedy, flour of alle thing
Rosa sine spina
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
Gratia divina
Of alle thu ber'st the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys
Electa
Mayde milde, moder es
Effecta.


Well he knows he is your Son,
Ventre quem portasti
Your prayers to him he will not shun,
Parvem quem lactasti.
So kindly and so good he is
That he has brought us all to bliss
Superni
And shut for ever the foul abyss
Inferni.

What do you mean, it is not obvious?  OK, here are some clues:

on - one; levedy - lady; thuster - dark; pris - prize.

Velut maris stella - like the star of the sea
Parens et puella - mother and maiden
Eva peccatrice - by Eve's sin
Ventre quem portasti - whom you bore in your womb
Parvem quem lactasti - the little one whom you suckled

Ask in the comms box if anything else needs elucidating (and correct all my errors…)

For historic reasons (see last December's posts) the last verse is translated by Brian Stone, unlike the others, (I've forgotten my source for them).

This has been set to music often, with varying success… A quick visit to Youtube will give several examples.

Here is Benjamin Britten's:

Medieval Christmas Poetry (1)

I have decided to re-post some of the Christmas poetry I have posted in the past. I have recently simply re-tweeted links, but realise that many readers come here because they see my latest post displayed in the sidebar of another blog, and so tweeting would not reach them.  I also considered a simple post with lots of links to the poems, but I know how I would react to that - click on one or two at the most.  

So, without further ado, still less apology, here we go again: some Medieval Christmas Poetry.

This first poem is from the early thirteenth century; you may recognise some of the lines, as they are quoted in another, much more famous poem quoted below, which has been set as a Christmas Carol.


Bringing us bliss now, the birds are all singing;
Branches sprout leaves and the grasses are springing.
Of one that is matchless my utterance sings
Chosen as mother by the King of Kings.

Taintless she is, and unspotted by sin,
Descended from Jesse, of kingly kin.
The Lord of mankind from her womb was born,
To save us from sin, who would else be forlorn.

'Hail Mary, full of grace! And may Our Lord
Be with you!' was the Angel Gabriel's word.
The fruit of your womb I declare shall be blest.
You shall carry a child beneath your breast.'

This greeting and word which the angel had brought,
Mary considered and pondered in thought.
She said to the angel, 'How could such thing be?
Of knowledge of man my body is free.'

She was virgin with child and virgin before,
And still virgin yet when her Baby she bore.
Never was maiden a mother but she;
Well might she the bearer of God's Son be!

Blest be the Child, and the Mother, too, blest,
And where her Son suckled, blest the sweet breast!
Praised be the time such child was born,
Who saved us from sin, who would else be forlorn!

[Trans: Brian Stone]


This second verse is from a minstrel manuscript from the early fifteenth century, and clearly draws on the earlier one.  Dew is a long standing literary figure for virginity: here the conception of the Son is seen as enhancing, rather than ending Our Lady's virginity.

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless,
King of all kings
To her son she chose.

He came as still
Where his mother was
As dew in April
That falls on the grass.

He came as still
To his mother's bower
As dew in April
That falls on the flower.

He came as still
Where his mother lay
As dew in April
That falls on the spray.

Mother and maiden
There was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
God's mother be.

(For those who like such things, here is the original:

I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.

He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.

He cam also stylle
to his moderes bowr
as dew in aprille,
þat fallyt on þe flour.

He cam also stylle
þer his moder lay
as dew in Aprille,
þat fallyt on þe spray.;

Moder & mayden
was neuer non but che –
wel may swych a lady
Godes moder be.)

Our God Within a Manger Lies

I wrote this carol a few of years ago.   It can be sung to any suitable long metre (8888) tune.

Our mighty Father's timeless Word,

Creator of the earth and skies,

Of man and mountain, beast and bird:

Our God within a manger lies.

To undo evil wrought by hate

In paradise, by Satan's lies,

When Adam of the apple ate:

Our God within a manger lies.

He left his high celestial throne

Remaining hidden from the wise

And calls the shepherd-folk his own:

Our God within a manger lies.

The mighty One whose power made

All things, now powerless He cries,

He's hungry, cold, and e'en afraid: 

Our God within a manger lies.

The stars He set to rule the night

Are dimmed by Mary's tender eyes

Alight with love as in her sight

Her God within the manger lies.

To Father, Son and Holy Ghost 

The Angels sing in their surprise,

And we rejoice with Heaven's host:

Our God within a manger lies.

My Mother's Carols

It is twenty years since my mother died. Needless to say, I still miss her, and particularly at Christmas. The way we celebrate Christmas (and Advent, too) is very much according to her design.

Here are some verses she wrote as Christmas carols.  The first is sung to the tune of Let all mortal flesh keep silence, but without the repeat of the first line of melody.  That apparently is how it was originally written (a Picardy carol tune) and the hymnologist Erik Routley commissioned my mother to write a lyric that honoured that. (In the book, Routley notes: The association of this tune with a solemn eucharistic hymn in English hymn books should not prejudice its interpretation here: it is a French peasant carol and should be sung simply and more or less in speech rhythm).  

For myself, I find it almost impossible to sing the tune without the repeated first line.

Anyway, here is my mother's lyric: 

God in highest heaven seeing 

All man's bitter grief and shame

Laid aside his power, his majesty, his bliss, 

To the rescue swiftly came.

God the Son, the Word eternal

Made himself a man on earth,

Entering a world that he himself had made

Through the lowly gate of birth.

There the baby lay in a manger

For his mother had no bed

Thirty years went by, and still the Son of God

Had no place to lay his head.

Yet he did not rest till, testing

Every depth of utter loss,

He, the Lord, was hanging, nailed through hands and feet

Stripped and dead upon a cross.

Jesus, Master, King of glory, 

Teach us loving you alone,

With a joyous will to follow you in peace

By the road that you have shown.

--

Here is another of my mother's carols.  This was also written at the request of Erik Routley for the University Carol Book. It is sung to an Irish Carol tune, whose name I don't recall (and I can't remember what other words I have sung to it, though I know that I have. It begins Doh Doh Mi Doh Mi So with syncopation on the mi-so [ie the mi is half a beat] Do any of my learned readers know the name of the tune?)

1. Come, ye thankful people, and welcome Christ to earth

With songs of joy and gladness at this amazing birth.
For now within the manger the new-born Baby lies;
For him the angels' music is ringing through the skies,

They hail with adoration the one eternal Word

That has to earth descended to be by all men heard.
They hail with adoration the one eternal Word
That has to earth descended to be by all men heard.

2. A maiden and a baby, a stable cold and bare,
Yet never was there palace that could with this compare,
For here the Queen of angels her son and God adores
While he his heavenly Father for all mankind implores.

He comes from highest heaven to end our woe and strife,

That we may live for ever with his celestial life.
He comes from highest heaven to end our woe and strife,
That we may live for ever with his celestial life.

3. "Holy, Holy, Holy" the glorious angels cry,
And "Holy, Holy, Holy" let Christians now reply.
Gold and myrrh and incense are gifts from Eastern kings,
But prayer and adoration the poorest of us brings,

As singing with the angels "Nowell, nowell, nowell",

We worship in the manger our Lord, Emmanuel.
As singing with the angels "Nowell, nowell, nowell",
We worship in the manger our Lord, Emmanuel.

UPDATE (2018) A mere year later it occurred to me that including a picture of the tune would be more helpful than trying to describe it...

All of which reminds me... My father met Erik for the first time at breakfast at Magdalen College. Erik was studying theology (he went on to be a United Reformed minister) and was being ragged by some juvenile undergraduates. He was getting heated, and one of his tormentors jibed: 'I thought you Christians were meant to suffer fools gladly.' Erik replied: 'Fools, yes. Congenital bloody idiots, no!' My father instantly recognised him as a soul-mate, and they were firm friends until my father's death in 1978. Erik married my father's sister, Margaret, who was a fine violinist.

All four of them (my father, mother, and Uncle Erik and Aunt Margaret) are now dead; so please say a prayer for them.

Requiescant in pace.

Aunty Pippa's Christmas Carols

I am sometimes overwhelmed by my own inattentiveness. I must have looked at the authors' index in the University Carol Book (ed Erik Routley, see posts passim) many times, but only the other day did I notice that as well as my Mother's carols (see here and here), there were two by her sister.

That sister is my late aunt Pippa, pictured here (attentive readers will remember that I have referred to this picture in a previous post...)

So here they are.

The Sun in the Morning (Sung to a Sussex folk tune)

O I sing of a simple stable in an inn-yard so small

Where the oxen and the asses they are watching by a stall,

Where lies the maiden Mary by a manger of hay

And the sun in the morning shall rise on Christmas day.

And I sing of some shepherd watching o’er their sheep by night

When there came an angel to tell them all clothèd in light.

Glad tidings of great joy did he unto them say

And the sun in the morning shall rise on Christmas day.

And I sing of God’s love to his own created earth,

As for us poor men of sin was his own Son given birth,

Let us all sing and rejoice in his love and be gay,

For the sun in the morning shall rise on Christmas day.

Shepherds Are Singing (sung to the tune Hirtenlied)

Shepherds are singing, laughing and dancing round.

Sheep bells are ringing, flowers cover the ground.

Birds sing and twitter gaily round the little hill,

Yet the snows glitter, winter wraps all the land still.

‘Tell me your story, wondrous things that have been. 

All the land hoary here, tho’ the spring is green.’ 

Bitter the night was as we watched our sleeping sheep,

Sudden the light was, banishing darkness deep.

‘Standing before us, saw we an angel bright, 

Shining and glorious filled with heavenly light.

God in his pity for the sin-enslavèd earth

Hath in yon city come to redeem by his birth.

More and more straightway angels in countless throng,

From heaven’s gateway sang their glorious song. 

With fear unladen ran we leaving our sheep, 

There lay the maiden, there the babe asleep.

‘Naught brought we for him, nothing but loving heart,

There to adore him, then in great glee to depart. 

God in a stable! God and man in flesh made one!

So were we able new times to see begun.

Singing his glory, laughing homeward we came. 

This is our story, Praise to Jesus’ name.

So we are singing, dancing on this little hill,

And our hearts ringing with glad tidings still.

--

I conclude that she was not such a gifted lyricist as her big sister (but I may be biased).

And let not the idea of nepotism even cross your mind!

Remember her in your prayers. Requiescat in pace.

Murder in the Cathedral: St Thomas' Christmas Sermon

I quoted T S Eliot's Journey of the Magi recently, and that put me in mind of the sermon preached by St Thomas Becket in his play, Murder in the Cathedral.

The Archbishop preaches in the Cathedral on Christmas morning, 1170.

Sermon

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." The fourteenth verse of the second chapter of the Gospel according to Saint Luke. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Dear children of God, my sermon this morning will be a very short one. I wish only that you should ponder and meditate on the deep meaning and mystery of our masses of Christmas Day. For whenever Mass is said, we re-enact the Passion and Death of Our Lord; and on this Christmas Day we do this in celebration of His Birth. So that at the same moment we rejoice in His coming for the salvation of men, and offer again to God His Body and Blood in sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world. It was in this same night that has just passed, that a multitude of the heavenly host appeared before the shepherds at Bethlehem, saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men"; at this same time of all the year that we celebrate at once the Birth of Our Lord and His Passion and Death upon the Cross. Beloved, as the World sees, this is to behave in a strange fashion. For who in the World will both mourn and rejoice at once and for the same reason? For either joy will be overcome by mourning or mourning will be cast out by joy; so that it is only in these our Christian mysteries that we can rejoice and mourn at once for the same reason. But think for a while on the meaning of this word "peace." Does it seem strange to you that the angels should have announced Peace, when ceaselessly the world has been stricken with War and the fear of War? Does it seem to you that the angelic voices were mistaken, and that the promise was a disappointment and a cheat?

Reflect now, how Our Lord Himself spoke of Peace. He said to His disciples: "My peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you." Did He mean peace as we think of it: the kingdom of England at peace with its neighbours, the barons at peace with the King, the householder counting over his peaceful gains, the swept hearth, his best wine for a friend at the table, his wife singing to the children? Those men His disciples knew no such things: they went forth to journey afar, to suffer by land and sea, to know torture, imprisonment, disappointment, to suffer death by martyrdom. What then did He mean? If you ask that, remember that He said also, "Not as the world giveth, give I unto you." So then, He gave to his disciples peace, but not peace as the world gives.

Consider also one thing of which you have probably never thought. Not only do we at the feast of Christmas celebrate at once Our Lord's Birth and His Death: but on the next day we celebrate the martyrdom of his first martyr, the blessed Stephen. Is it an accident, do you think, that the day of the first martyr follows immediately the day of the Birth of Christ? By no means. Just as we rejoice and mourn at once, in the Birth and Passion of Our Lord; so also, in a smaller figure, we both rejoice and mourn in the death of martyrs. We mourn, for the sins of the world that has martyred them; we rejoice, that another soul is numbered among the Saints in Heaven, for the glory of God and for the salvation of men.

Beloved, we do not think of a martyr simply as a good Christian who has been killed because he is a Christian: for that would be solely to mourn. We do not think of him simply as a good Christian who has been elevated to the company of the Saints: for that would be simply to rejoice: and neither our mourning nor our rejoicing is as the world's is. A Christian martyrdom is no accident. Saints are not made by accident. Still less is a Christian martyrdom the effect of a man's will to become a Saint, as a man by willing and contriving may become a ruler of men. Ambition fortifies the will of man to become ruler over other men: it operates with deception, cajolery, and violence, it is the action of impurity upon impurity. Not so in Heaven. A martyr, a saint, is always made by the design of God, for His love of men, to warn them and to lead them, to bring them back to His ways. A martyrdom is never the design of man; for the true martyr is he who has become the instrument of God, who has lost his will in the will of God, not lost it but found it, for he has found freedom in submission to God. The martyr no longer desires anything for himself, not even the glory of martyrdom. So thus as on earth the Church mourns and rejoices at once, in a fashion that the world cannot understand; so in Heaven the Saints are most high, having made themselves most low, seeing themselves not as we see them, but in the light of the Godhead from which they draw their being.

I have spoken to you today, dear children of God, of the martyrs of the past, asking you to remember especially our martyr of Canterbury, the blessed Archbishop Elphege; because it is fitting, on Christ's birthday, to remember what is that peace which he brought; and because, dear children, I do not think that I shall ever preach to you again; and because it is possible that in a short time you may have yet another martyr, and that one perhaps not the last. I would have you keep in your hearts these words that I say, and think of them at another time. 

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

--

This sermon comes as an interlude between Part One and Part Two, just after the scene with the Tempters; which contains one of the most resonant couplets in the whole piece: 

The last temptation is the greatest treason: 
To do the right deed for the wrong reason.

--  

On which note, a Blessed Christmas to all my readers.

A 21st Century Carol

Here is a carol I wrote last year. It can be sung to any suitable long metre (8888) tune.


Our mighty Father's timeless Word,

Creator of the earth and skies,

Of man and mountain, beast and bird:

Our God within a manger lies.

To undo evil wrought by hate

In paradise, by Satan's lies,

When Adam of the apple ate:

Our God within a manger lies.

He left his high celestial throne

Remaining hidden from the wise

And calls the shepherd-folk his own:

Our God within a manger lies.

The mighty One whose power made

All things, now powerless He cries,

He's hungry, cold, and e'en afraid: 

Our God within a manger lies.

The stars He set to rule the night

Are dimmed by Mary's tender eyes

Alight with love as in her sight

Her God within the manger lies.

To Father, Son and Holy Ghost 

The Angels sing in their surprise,

And we rejoice with Heaven's host:

Our God within a manger lies.

BT

Another Carol by my Mother

Here is another of my mother's carols.  This was also written at the request of the hymnologist Erik Routley for the University Carol Book (1961) of which he was the editor. It is sung to an Irish Carol tune, whose name I don't recall (and I can't remember what other words I have sung to it, though I know that I have. It begins Doh Doh Mi Doh Mi So with syncopation on the mi-so [ie the mi is half a beat] Do any of my learned readers know the name of the tune?)

1. Come, ye thankful people, and welcome Christ to earth

With songs of joy and gladness at this amazing birth.
For now within the manger the new-born Baby lies;
For him the angels' music is ringing through the skies,

They hail with adoration the one eternal Word

That has to earth descended to be by all men heard.
They hail with adoration the one eternal Word
That has to earth descended to be by all men heard.

2. A maiden and a baby, a stable cold and bare,
Yet never was there palace that could with this compare,
For here the Queen of angels her son and God adores
While he his heavenly Father for all mankind implores.

He comes from highest heaven to end our woe and strife,

That we may live for ever with his celestial life.
He comes from highest heaven to end our woe and strife,
That we may live for ever with his celestial life.

3. "Holy, Holy, Holy" the glorious angels cry,
And "Holy, Holy, Holy" let Christians now reply.
Gold and myrrh and incense are gifts from Eastern kings,
But prayer and adoration the poorest of us brings,

As singing with the angels "Nowell, nowell, nowell",

We worship the manger our Lord, Emmanuel.
As singing with the angels "Nowell, nowell, nowell",
We worship the manger our Lord, Emmanuel.

All of which reminds me... My father met Erik for the first time at breakfast at Magdalen College. Erik was studying theology (he went on to be a United Reformed minister) and was being ragged by some juvenile undergraduates. He was getting heated, and one of his tormentors jibed: 'I thought you Christians were meant to suffer fools gladly.' Erik replied: 'Fools, yes. Congenital bloody idiots, no!' My father instantly recognised him as a soul-mate, and they were firm friends until my father's death in 1978. Erik married my father's sister, Margaret, who was a fine violinist.

All four of them (my father, mother, and Uncle Erik and Aunt Margaret) are now dead; so please say a prayer for them.

Requiescant in pace.

My Mother's Carol

It is eighteen years since my mother died. Needless to say, I still miss her, and particularly at Christmas. The way we celebrate Christmas (and Advent, too) is very much according to her design.

Here is a verse she wrote as a Christmas carol.  It is sung to the tune of Let all mortal flesh keep silence, but without the repeat of the first line of melody.  That apparently is how it was originally written (a Picardy carol tune) and the hymnologist Erik Routley commissioned my mother to write a lyric that honoured that. (In the book, Routley notes: The association of this tune with a solemn eucharistic hymn in English hymn books should not prejudice its interpretation here: it is a French peasant carol and should be sung simply and more or less in speech rhythm).  

For myself, I find it almost impossible to sing the tune without the repeated first line.

Anyway, here is my mother's lyric: 

God in highest heaven seeing 

All man's bitter grief and shame

Laid aside his power, his majesty, his bliss, 

To the rescue swiftly came.

God the Son, the Word eternal

Made himself a man on earth,

Entering a world that he himself had made

Through the lowly gate of birth.

There the baby lay in a manger

For his mother had no bed

Thirty years went by, and still the Son of God

Had no place to lay his head.

Yet he did not rest till, testing

Every depth of utter loss,

He, the Lord, was hanging, nailed through hands and feet

Stripped and dead upon a cross.

Jesus, Master, King of glory, 

Teach us loving you alone,

With a joyous will to follow you in peace

By the road that you have shown.

--

Requiescat in pace

Meditation on the Nativity

Because you can never have too much of Elizabeth Jennings' poetry...


All gods and goddesses, all looked up to
And argued with and threatened. All that fear
Which man shows to the very old and new -
All this, all these have gone. They disappear
In fables coming true.

In acts so simple that we are amazed -
A woman and a child. He trusts, she soothes.
Men see serenity and they are pleased.
Placating prophets talked but here are truths
All men have only praised

Before in dreams. Lost legends here are pressed
Not on to paper but in flesh and blood,
A promise kept. Her modesties divest
Our guilt of shame as she hands him her food
And he smiles on her breast.

Painters' perceptions, visionaries' long
Torments and silence, blossom here and speak.
Listen, our murmurs are a cradle-song,
Look, we are found who seldom dared to seek -
A maid, a child, God young.

Elizabeth Jennings

Christmas Suite in Five Movements

1 The Fear

So simple, very few
Can be so bare, be open to the wide
Dark, the starless night, the day’s persistent
Wearing away of time. See, men cast off
Their finery and lay it on the floor,

Here, of a stable. What do they wait for?
Answers to learned questions? No, they have
Been steeped in books and wear the dust of them.

Philosophy breaks all its definitions,
Logic is lost, and here
The Word is silent. This God fears the night,
A child so terrified he asks for us.  
God is the cry we thought came from our own 
Perpetual sense of loss.
Can God be frightened to be so alone?
Does that child dream of the Cross?

2 The Child

Blood on a berry.
Night of frost,
Some make merry, 
Some are lost.

Footsteps crack
On a pool of ice.
Hope is back.  
This baby lies

Wrapped in rags, 
Is fed by a girl. 
O if God begs, 
Then we all hold

Him in our Power. 
We catch our breath. 
This is the hour
For the terrible truth.

Terrible, yes, 
But sweet also.
God needs us.
Now, through snow,

Tomorrow through heat
We carry him
And hear his heart
And bring him home.

3 A Litany

Mary of solace, take our hope,
Girl untouched, take our hands,
Lady of Heaven, come to our homes,
You bring Heaven down.

Mary of mercy, learn our laws,
Lady of care, take impulse to
Your heart, give us grace, 
More than enough
And a relish for
The renewal of love.

Queen of formal gardens, reach our forests, 
Girl of the fountains, come into our desert.
Mary of broken hearts, help us to keep
Promises. Lady of wakefulness, take our sleep.
You hold God in your arms, and he may weep.

4 The Despair

All night you fought the dream and when you woke
Lay exhausted, blinded by the sun. 
How could you face the day which had begun?
As we do, Christ, but worse for you.  You broke
Into our history. History drives you on.

Love before this was dust, but it was dust
You took upon yourself.  Your empty hands
Have scars upon them. You have made amends
For all wrong acts, for love brought down to lust. 
God, the world is crying and man stands

Upon the brink of worse than tragedy.
That was noble. Now there’s something more
Than careful scenes and acts. Some men make war
On you and we feel helpless, are not free
To struggle for you. God, we’ve seen you poor

And cold. Are stars dispensing light that you
Should find the universe turned... can it be
Away from you? No, no, we cannot see
Far or fully. Christ just born, you go
Back to the blighted, on to the thriving Tree.

5 The Victory

Down to that littleness, down to all that
Crying and hunger, all that tiny flesh
And flickering spirit - down the great stars fall, 
Here the huge kings bow.
Here the farmer sees his fragile lambs,
Here the wise man throws his books away.

This manger is the universe’s cradle,
This singing mother has the words of truth.
Here the ox and ass and sparrow stop, 
Here the hopeless man breaks into trust.
God, you have made a victory for the lost.
Give us this daily Bread, this little Host.

Elizabeth Jennings